Great Deeds
by My Dear Professor McGonagall
Summary: A collection. "For there are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life." - Victor Hugo
1. Minerva

_10 October 1935_

"Minerva."

At the sound of his wife's voice, Robert blinked and looked up from the sermon he was writing. Isobel stood in the doorway of his tiny, cramped little study, smiling wanly at him. She was wearing her dressing gown, and she cradled in her arms a small white bundle.

"I-Isobel," he stammered, getting to his feet at once and going to her. "Are you sure you ought to be—?"

"I want to call her Minerva, Robert," she said gently, taking a step back from him. She looked down at their sleeping daughter. "After my grandmother."

"Minerva," he repeated. He, too, looked down at the baby. "Are—are you sure about that? It's rather an unusual name, isn't it? I—I had thought we rather liked Edith—"

"It was my grandmother's name," Isobel said simply. Her chin trembled slightly as she said, "And…if—if our little girl grew up to be—to be anything at all like her…" She took a shuddering breath, and tears filled her eyes. "That would be the best I could ever hope for her."

Robert stared at her. In the week or so since the baby's arrival, Isobel had not been her usual happy, sparkling self, but prone to fits of crying and inexplicable depression. Though the midwife (whom he had consulted in private after Sunday services just this morning) had assured him that this was normal for many women who had just given birth, he had the distinct impression that Isobel's seclusion from him, keeping their daughter with her, was rather unusual.

"You know," he said gently, "I think every good parish needs a free spirit. Maybe our little one will be our very own Roman warrior." Isobel looked up into his eyes, and for a moment, the sorrow in her features lifted; he caught just a glimpse of his wonderful wife.

"Thank you, darling."

_15 December 1935_

"Minerva!"

"It's an odd name, don't ye think?"

"Well, he always seemed an eccentric te me."

"Y'know his wife's did her schoolin' in _London?_ Don't know how _we_ ended up with him here, marryin' a well-off girl like that."

"Now jus' coz they're from elsewhere doesn' mean he hasn' got God's blessing. He may be jus' the man we need 'round here."

"Yeah, well, I jus' wanna know what sort of loon goes 'round lettin' his high-talkin' wife pick out some ungodly name for their firstborn. T'ain't Christian, I say."

"Oh, drink yer pint, ye old sod."

_3 July 1936_

"Minerva!"

At once, the bagpipe music stopped. The baby, who was in her high chair, gasped and burst immediately into noisy tears, her little head drooping.

"Oh, I thought that was you," Isobel groaned, hurrying over to pick her up. "Shh, shh, darling, come on now. Mumma isn't angry…"

But Minerva only wailed louder.

"Ha! I see someone likes our morning musician," Robert laughed as he came into the kitchen. "Ah, love, he'll be back again tomorrow!" he teased, coming close and tickling the baby's cheek. She sniffled and put her arms out for him; Isobel gladly handed her over and hurried to save the eggs from burning.

"Whoever he is, he must come close to the house," Robert commented, sitting down at the kitchen table and placing Minerva in his lap. "But I'll be dashed if I can ever see the man!"

"Not at all," Isobel said lightly, feeling her cheeks grow hot. "I think the music must come from a bit farther away, that's all. We just—we just hear it, now and again." She turned around with a plate full of ham and eggs; Robert had settled Minerva back in her high chair again. "It doesn't sound all that close to me."

Robert chuckled as he put his napkin in his lap. "You need your ears looked at, lass, it's practically in the house!" Isobel tried to laugh, too, but turned away to hide her blush and busied herself with stirring Minerva's porridge. "Isobel?" Robert asked. "All right, there?"

She turned around, hitching a brilliant smile on her face. "Fine, darling," she promised. She came and sat down beside Minerva and spooned some of the porridge into the mouth of the fussy nine-month-old.

But she kept her eyes carefully focused on feeding the baby, and nowhere near Robert's searching gaze.

_9 November 1936_

"Minerva?"

"Minerva, too," Isobel murmured.

Robert felt ill. He sank down on the end of his bed, staring at the ten-inch stick of polished mahogany his wife held as she cried, half-crumpled in a heap upon the floor.

"My—my daughter—she—she's—"

"A witch. Like me," Isobel whispered. "All—all of the odd things—the bagpipes, the cat…last week, with the honeypot—she has magic like—like I've never heard of in a child her age." Isobel wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief, staring down into her lap.

"You're sure, then…if I know…you're not in danger? Is Minerva in danger from this—this Ministry?"

Isobel looked into his eyes, sniffling. "We won't be…not as long as we abide by our laws—_my_ laws. No one else here may know."

Robert took a steadying breath. "I…I don't know what to say to you, Isobel," he said quietly. Although he tried to make his tone very gentle, Isobel looked away as though he had struck her.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, hard, with both hands. "You've just told me that—that things which I have rejected the existence of—for all of my life—are—they're not only quite real, it's a second, secret world." Isobel nodded slowly, wiping away a tear that slid down her cheek. She fingered the lock-box in which she had hidden her—Robert had to bring himself to even think the words—_magic wand._ A thunderclap sounded overhead, and the patter of rain began to fall on the thatched roof; in the nursery, Minerva began to cry.

And somehow, that familiar sound was like a tonic, straight to his heart; it warmed him from the inside out. He let out a slow breath.

"Isobel," he said. She didn't look at him right away; he recognized her posture. She was ashamed, and desperately sad, and he wanted nothing more than to stop her feeling that way. "Isobel, lass, look at me."

At last, she did, her large dark eyes lifting to meet his. He gave her a smile that he hoped looked less unhappy than he truly felt. "I'll go and look after Minerva. You take a moment, collect yourself. I'll come back to bed in a little while."

"Robert, I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I—I should have never lied to you—if you left now, I would—"

"Isobel Ross," he said, taking her wrist tightly in his hand. "I will not leave. Not for this, not for anything. You don't believe that's the sort of man I am, do you?"

Isobel's lips trembled. "I—I don't know," she whispered.

The words were like a knife, straight through him; but it was the truth, he could see it in her eyes. And honestly, at this precise moment, he didn't know himself, either. And worse, it seemed, he didn't know Isobel. Minerva's crying became louder.

"I'll see to her," he said softly, releasing Isobel's wrist and rising. He went to their bedroom door. "Good night, Isobel. I love you, very much."

She stared at him, her eyes widening. "I—I love you too, Robert."

He gave her half a smile and turned to go; then he saw her reaching for the lock-box. "Don't put it away, lass," he said softly. "I know it all now."

Isobel's back stiffened; she was turned away from him, but nodded once. She took the magic wand and slipped it into the drawer of her bedside table.

* * *

*peers out from under rock*

Hello!

I missed you all like CRAZY MY WONDERFUL LITTLE DUCKLINGS JUST COME HERE AT ONCE AND LET ME SMOOSH YOU! *opens arms for smooshes*

OKAY So look see here I'm still alive and functioning (ish) and I've got a brand new chunk of stories for all of you! Now here's the deal, I'm going to start with 'weekly' updates (ha we'll see how fast that goes out the window, you know I have no restraint when it comes to all of you). I'm also trying, and I know this is unusual, so bear with me) to keep all of these in chronological order.

HOWEVER. I am more than open to suggestions about what bits and pieces of Minerva's life *you'd* like to see, so we'll just keep things loose as possible, and if I end up backtracking and going back in time, then I'll shuffle the chronology around later. Sound good?

In the meantime, start reading up (books *and* Pottermore), and sending me some of your favorite Minerva scenes that you'd like to read! :)

So happy to be back, lovelies,

MDPM


	2. Snow

Yeeeee hi everybody! You're all so cute and wonderful and I love you! xoxo

* * *

19 January 1942

"But _when_ will the baby be here? Where's Mrs. Prentice?" asked Minerva anxiously, staring up at the ceiling, waiting to hear some sound that the midwife might be making her way downstairs. She was the very picture of nerves, marching up and down the length of the little study, wringing her skinny hands and chewing her lips. "Will Mother be all right?"

"Your mum'll be fine, miss," Robert assured her gently. Eighteen-month-old Robbie was slumped on his chest, snoring. Minerva stopped pacing and came to lean against the side of his chair, gazing at her tiny brother. "She's done this twice before, you know," he told her, patting Robbie on his back. "And the last times, it brought me the two greatest blessings God has ever given me. It won't be long now."

Minerva sighed and leaned her head on Robert's shoulder. "I just want Mother to feel better."

Robert nodded. "She will. Give her a couple of days, she'll be right as rain. And then the two of you will have a new playmate."

"Not right away," Minerva said seriously. "Babies can't play outdoors when they're too small."

Robert looked up at his daughter and laughed. "That's a good point, girl."

"Will you play your bagpipes, Dad?" she asked, hooking an arm around his neck.

"Not right now, Minerva. I don't think your mother would thank me for it if we woke Robbie in the middle of all this," he said gently. "Why don't you find something good to read? It'll help pass the time," he promised, lifting his own newspaper, which he was reading over Robbie's shoulder.

Minerva sighed and nodded, wandering away from him. She knelt down on the floor before the bookcase, primly smoothing her skirt before scanning the titles with narrowed eyes. She selected a book and then hopped up onto the window seat, crossing her long legs at the ankles.

"Minerva," said Robert seriously.

She froze and slowly looked up at him with what she clearly felt was a winning smile. "Yes, Dad?" she asked, in a very good imitation of his tone.

"Reading glasses," he said, tapping his own, which were perched on the bridge of his nose. "Or your eyes will fall out." He turned back to his newspaper and pretended—just this once—not to notice the gruesome face Minerva pulled.

She reached into the pocket of her dress for her glasses; Robert knew how much she hated them, but she got dreadful headaches when she tried to go without, and on his salary, with the new baby on the way, the round wire frames had been the best he could afford.

"Come over here, Jacob," she said, looking at Isobel's cat, who was curled up in his usual perch on a bookshelf. Obediently (and he had only ever seemed to do what Minerva wanted him to do, from the moment she was born), he slunk off the shelf and trotted over to her, curling up in her lap.

Robert watched her for a moment, settling comfortably into a book about the climate of Scotland as she scratched Jacob's ears. Outside the window where she was perched, it had grown dark. A gentle snow was falling, and the glass of the window had to be absolutely freezing, but Minerva didn't seem to mind.

She was six years old. Robbie was nearly two, and the new baby was just hours from her—or his—arrival. Where had the time gone? Around this time, just a few short years from now, Robert was going to send this little girl, curled up in the window, off to Isobel's school. These moments he so loved with all of his children together, would be few and far between.

Isobel had instructed Minerva, of course, and would instruct Robbie, in the best ways to keep their abilities discreet from the parish, and their little family lived, more or less, as—what was it? Moggles? No, Muggles. That was the word Isobel used. But soon, Minerva's other side, her true nature as a witch (it had taken him some time, but now Robert could think the foreign, uncomfortable word without hesitation), would be encouraged and cultivated.

He wasn't sure whether he ought to be pleased for his daughter, or sorry for himself. As Robert watched her, Minerva pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and sighed, stroking Jacob's belly. She flicked over a page in the book and looked up at him. He couldn't help but smile, slightly.

"Dad?" she asked, peering at him over her spectacles, her dark brows knit into a severe line, "What's the difference between a bog and a moor?"


	3. Hogwarts

OH MY GOOD HEAVENS KIDDOS

I forgot to upload! I'm so sorry! Don't ever let me do it again. :)

Love you!

* * *

31 August 1947

"Minerva, darling, we have _got_ to go!" Mother called up the stairs, over the excited squeals of Robbie and Malcolm. Minerva stood before the mirror in the washroom, staring at her reflection. "Are you ready?"

"Coming!" Minerva called through the closed door, and she could hear her voice shake. She straightened the blue dress her mother had made for her, special for today, and checked that her long, dark braid was smooth and secure.

"Minerva!"

Mother sounded anxious. Minerva imagined it had to do with Dad, and making him feel more comfortable about saying goodbye. He had stayed shut up in his study the other night, when Mother had hemmed her Hogwarts robes in the kitchen, and hadn't been upstairs to Minerva's bedroom once since her books had arrived from Diagon Alley. Minerva's stomach twisted tightly, and she reached hurriedly into her pocket, pushing her wire glasses onto her nose. Perhaps her eyes wouldn't look so red and puffy behind them…

"Don't look at me like that, Jacob," she said to the green-eyed tabby cat curled up in the empty bathtub, staring up at her. He blinked lazily and then hopped out of the tub, coming to curl around her ankles. He meowed. "You're going gray," she told him, kneeling down to pet the top of his head. He let out a grumble and batted her fingers reproachfully with his paw.

_Knock-knock._

Minerva hesitated, certain it would be her mother.

"You've got a train to catch, Minerva McGonagall," Dad's voice said seriously. Minerva started and jumped for the doorknob. She pulled open the door and looked up at him; he was smiling. She rushed forward and hugged him, and Jacob, feeling quite forgotten, trotted out of the bathroom between their feet.

"I don't want to go," she mumbled into his chest. "I want to stay with you and Robbie and Malcolm."

Dad rubbed her back. "I know, lass…if I'm honest, I don't want you to go, either." Minerva pulled back, gazing up at him. His eyes were very sad, though he was still smiling. "But it's only because I'll miss walking with you. I'll miss visiting the stream, and having you in my study day and night. And the questions—what will I do without my Minerva's endless questions?"

"Dad," she murmured, hugging him again.

"You will be fine, Minerva," he told her, kissing the top of your head. "Your mother…you know how happy she is when she talks about your school."

Minerva's heart twisted; she hadn't told Dad that she had caught her mother crying again last night, this time over her packed Hogwarts trunk. "I'll miss you."

"And I'll miss you," he agreed. "But you'll be home for Christmas before you know it. And then I'll need your help, because I've completely forgotten how to write a Christmas Eve sermon without you."

Minerva smiled just as her mother appeared on the landing, smiling gently. "Come along, sweetheart. London's a long way off." She held out her gloved hand, which Minerva took and followed her down the stairs, Dad's hand on her shoulders.

"I'll be back tomorrow evening, darling," said Mother, kissing Dad. "There's plenty of food prepared in the icebox, you only need to put it in the oven, all right?"

Dad put an arm around her waist. "We'll be fine, Isobel. Don't worry so. Won't we, boys? We'll be grand!"

Robbie was examining Minerva's trunk while Malcolm played with his tin soldiers on the carpet beside the stairs. At Dad's words, Robbie gave jubilant yell. "Can we go to town, Dad? Can we?"

Malcolm looked up from his soldiers and grinned. "Go to town!"

"Maybe so," Dad chuckled. "Now, gentlemen, hug your sister, tell her you'll miss her. It's time for her to go."

"_Byyye, _Minerva," groaned Robbie as he gave her a perfunctory hug around her waist. Then he hurried away before she could kiss him on the cheek. She giggled, and he pulled a face at her behind Mother's back. Malcolm, however, looked utterly shocked that all the excitement of preparation and packing had actually signaled Minerva's departure.

"Now?" he asked her, his eyes going wide.

She nodded, feeling something stick in her throat. "But I'll come home for Christmas," she promised, and she knelt down. Malcolm threw himself over her shoulders.

"Don't go," he murmured.

Minerva shut her eyes and kissed Malcolm's cheek. "Be good, all right? I'll send you lots of letters—and I'll bring you a present, when I come home!"

"Presents!" Malcolm squealed delightedly, as Mother picked him up and smoothed his hair.

"Me too, right?" Robbie asked, suddenly much more interested in giving Minerva a second goodbye hug.

Malcolm was hugging Mother's neck. "Bye, Mumma. I miss you."

"Me too, sweetheart," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow. You two make sure your dad behaves himself." She smiled at Dad, and Minerva felt a little of the weight in her stomach lighten. She pulled on her coat and picked up her satchel full of books. Dad had promised to send her more when she had read them all.

Mother handed Malcolm over to Dad and bent, picking up the end of Minerva's trunk. Dad had fitted some handles and a detachable set of wheels onto it so that it could be dragged more easily, but Mother had done a little work of her own to keep it from getting too heavy.

"You've got your tickets?" Dad asked, following them to the door with Malcolm in his arms and Robbie at his side.

"We'll get them at the station, it's more than early enough," said Mother as she and Minerva stepped out onto the garden path. The day was bright and sunny, but cool, and Jacob had taken up his usual sun-soaked spot in the middle of the garden, on a warm, flat stone. He twitched his tail, his eyes on Minerva.

"Travel safe, girls," Dad called. He and Robbie waved as Minerva and her mother walked out the garden gate and started down the dirt road that led to the center of town and the train station.

Mother squeezed her hand as they walked. "You're all right, Minerva?"

She nodded. "I'm nervous," she confessed.

A muscle tightened in Mother's face, but she tried to smile. "I know. But you'll love it, darling, you really will."

Minerva was quiet for a long time, clinging to her mother's hand as they walked on. Her throat was much too dry to speak. She glanced back over her shoulder at the manse a few times, but after they had rounded a curve in the lane, it fell out of sight. Then, unexpectedly, Mother stopped walking, and Minerva ran right into her back. She stood with her back close to an overgrown hedge of roses, which hid them quite well from the road.

"Oh—I'm sorry, sweetheart. Hold on just one moment," she said, looking around once in every direction. Nobody ever traveled this dirt road unless they had an appointment with Dad, or were going to one of the farms; they were quite alone.

And then, to Minerva's shock, Mother drew her wand from her coat pocket. With a flourish of her wrist_,_ she made the trunk disappear with a small _pop_. "I've just sent it to our inn, Minerva, don't look so scared," Mother told her, though a flush of pink had filled her cheeks and she was beaming. "Now listen, I—I have a surprise for you." She put both hands on Minerva's shoulders. "I know that…at home, we follow some special rules, so that Dad can do his work, and we can live here without…surprising any of the Muggles."

Minerva nodded.

"Well…the truth is, darling, I do have some friends from when I went to Hogwarts," Mother went on. "And one of them…she works in the Ministry of Magic. You remember what I've told you about the Ministry?"

Minerva nodded again, feeling a little shiver of anticipation.

"She's helped me arrange something for us," Mother said. "We aren't going to take a train to London. We're going to take a Portkey."

"A what?" Minerva asked, and Mother smiled.

"I think you'll like it," she said, drawing a compact mirror from her pocket. She checked her watch. "We've got two minutes before we go."

"But…Dad thinks we're taking the train," Minerva said. "We can't lie to him."

"I'll tell him all about it when I'm home again," Mother promised, her face suddenly serious. "We'll never, ever lie to your father about magic. But…I wanted to do this for you, Minerva, because I want the very first time you travel by magic to be with me. And I want to take you somewhere special, when we get to London."

Minerva's eyes widened. "You mean…?"

Mother smiled. "I know I sent away for your books and supplies," she said. "But I think there are a few more things you might like to see."

"We're going to Diagon Alley?" Minerva asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"You're certainly old enough," Mother said. "And I think you're allowed a pet, aren't you? Perhaps Jacob wouldn't mind sharing houseroom on your holidays." Minerva clapped both hands over her mouth. Mother held out the compact mirror.

"Just touch this, and we'll be there in a moment." She was smiling as Minerva had never seen her smile before; for the first time ever, she could see the witch her mother was.

"What is it?" Mother asked, startled by the expression that had obviously taken over Minerva's face.

Minerva blinked. "I—I don't know," she giggled, covering her mouth. "I—I'm a—_witch_," she whispered. "I really am."

Mother opened her mouth, her smile fading slightly—but then she closed it, offering the compact mirror once again. "Yes you are, my love," she agreed.

Minerva glanced off towards the manse one last time, feeling suddenly wild with excitement. She had never thought that this moment of departure, about which she had been so reluctant, would ever have made her heart race the way it did now. She reached out one hand and touched the mirror.


	4. Prefect

9 September 1947

"I think we're going the wrong way," said Clare Cauldwell, as she followed Minerva and Augusta Fawley up the staircase.

"No, we've just—I don't think we came this way last week," Minerva said. "We were late, we missed breakfast…"

"I'm not going to be late today, girls," said Augusta primly. "It's a left here—"

"Hey, McGonagall! McGonagall!"

All three girls stiffened and looked at each other. "Ignore her, Minerva," Augusta said. _"Ignore her."_

Minerva grit her teeth and all three of them tried to put on some speed. Just as Augusta and Clare slipped away in the crowd of students hurrying through the corridor, Felicia Avery caught up to Minerva, her expression smug.

"Saw you got a letter at breakfast," Felicia said, swiping an elbow at Minerva's side. "What, did your Muggle dad learn how the owl post works _already?"_

"Leave me alone," Minerva spat, but she was backed into a corner between a solid wall and a suit of armor. The flow of students hurrying to class made it impossible for her to break away from this girl, a first year Slytherin even taller than she was. She had made it her personal mission to make every day of Minerva's first year at Hogwarts terrible.

Of course, things might have gone better if Minerva hadn't shouted at her aboard the Hogwarts Express for insulting a Muggle-born boy called Alexander, but as Dad said, what was done was done, and Minerva had certainly _promised_ to do quite a lot to Felicia before Clare had forcibly dragged her back into their compartment.

"You know, my father went to school with your mother," Felicia reminded Minerva. "I asked him. He said she lives like a Muggle now, and he's not surprised, because for a Ravenclaw she was dimmer than—"

"Shut up!" Minerva shouted, whipping out her wand. "Just shut up about my parents!"

"What's going on here? No magic in the corridors, you two. Five points off from Gryffindor and Slytherin," said a short, round-faced girl who had just pushed through the crowd. Minerva's stomach plummeted another ten feet; it was a prefect, a blonde Hufflepuff with long, curly hair.

"I wasn't doing anything," Felicia said haughtily.

"Get to class," barked the prefect. With one last nasty look at Minerva, Felicia obeyed. Then the prefect turned on Minerva, who was still feeling very angry.

"Sorry," she said tersely, putting away her wand. "It won't happen again."

"I'm supposed to tell your Head of House, when something like this happens, and you were the one with your wand out," the girl told her. She hesitated. "Do you want to try explaining before I go to Professor Dumbledore?"

"She was being rude," said Minerva, looking down at the floor.

"What?"

"She insulted my family," she burst out, perhaps a little more angrily than she should have, given the circumstances. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "My dad's a Muggle, and she—she was—that's all." If this prefect was anything like some of the people she had encountered thus far at Hogwarts, she was unlikely to be sympathetic. But when she looked up again, Minerva was surprised to see that the prefect was frowning. She appeared to be thinking seriously about something.

"Next time," she said at last, "don't get caught."

Minerva's mouth fell open. "What?"

"I'll let you off with just taking the points, _this time,"_ the prefect told her. "But next time, I'll take it to Professor Dumbledore. Understand me?"

Minerva nodded and turned to go.

"Wait a moment—you were the Hatstall during the Sorting ceremony, weren't you? That had to be ten minutes you were under there," she laughed. Minerva turned. Though she had to be at least sixteen or so, she was only a few inches taller than Minerva. "None of my friends could believe it, we were all talking about it in the common room."

Minerva blushed, her cheeks growing hot. "It couldn't make up its mind, I guess," she mumbled.

"Oh, no—I'm sorry, don't be embarrassed," the prefect said quickly, her eyes wide. She seemed utterly mortified and hurried on, "The Sorting Hat's supposed to choose based on your best qualities, right? You must have had a lot for it to choose from."

Minerva frowned. "Most people just want to know what it was picking between."

"Well…I thought that might be a little rude to ask," she confessed. "It's your brain."

Minerva looked at her carefully. "My mother was a Ravenclaw. It couldn't decide if I was, too," she said at last. Then she extended her right hand, feeling a smile creep onto her own face. "I'm Minerva McGonagall. It's nice to meet you."

"And you. I'm Pomona Sprout," the prefect replied, shaking her hand enthusiastically. "Oh—that's the second bell. You'd better get to your lesson, you don't want to be late in your first week."

"Er—can you tell me—?"

"Which class?" Pomona asked patiently.

Minerva turned scarlet again. "Transfiguration," she said.

"Two rights down this corridor, and it's the first room on the left," Pomona told her. "Just look for Professor Dumbledore, you can't miss him."

Minerva giggled and hitched her bag up her shoulder again. "Thank you."

"Get going, or we'll both be late, and then I'll save my own skin and tell him all about this," Pomona teased, and Minerva laughed, already hurrying up the corridor.

* * *

*heehee*

Double cameo surprises! Points if you caught both (not like it was too difficult, but all the same). Who guessed who the prefect was?! Hm? Be honest...

LOVE YOU!


	5. First Year

Hi everybody! I'm thinking I might start twice-weekly updates, just because I miss you :D. We'll have to see! Hope you like. More McGonagall family goodness :)

Love you!

* * *

23 December 1947

Minerva sat on the floor beneath the small Christmas tree with Monty, her kitten, curled in her lap. Jacob was on top of a bookshelf nearby, eyeing Monty suspiciously. Minerva pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and turned a page in her book. Dad was in his armchair, with Malcolm in his lap; they were looking at a picture book, and Mother was sitting on the sofa by the fire with a pair of trousers she was mending.

"I like that one," Malcolm yawned, only half-awake as he pointed at a page. He stretched, closing his eyes and starting to fall asleep on Dad's chest.

"Minerva?" Robbie said, looking up from the model train he was putting together to run under the Christmas tree. "Minerva, will you help me?"

"With what?" she asked, lowering her book.

"I want it to have steam!" he said excitedly, pointing at the model engine's smokestack. "Can you do it? With—you know?"

Minerva opened her mouth slowly and looked up at her father, who had frozen. He didn't move his eyes from the page, but they had slid out of focus, slightly. "Um—Robbie—I think—"

"Time for bed, boys," Mother said, setting aside her sewing and getting up. She scooped Malcolm out of Dad's arms as she spoke.

"But—"

"Robert," Dad said seriously. "Listen to your mother." Robbie's head drooped, and he got up to follow her out of the room.

"Bedtime in fifteen minutes, Minerva," she said gently as they left.

Minerva's throat was tight and painful; she watched her mother and brothers go, and then looked at her father, who had set aside Malcolm's book and shut his eyes.

"I…I didn't tell him I could—Dad, I swear—" Minerva said.

"Don't say that, lass, it's—not ladylike," Dad said in a tired sort of way. Then he opened his eyes and gave her a smile. "I know you didn't do anything, Minerva. It's all right. Your brother is a curious boy."

"I didn't mean to make you angry," she said quietly, gripping her book so tightly her fingers hurt.

Dad frowned suddenly and sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm not angry, Minerva. Don't think that of me, please."

"No, Dad, I didn't mean—" Minerva fell silent at the look on Dad's face. Her stomach suddenly hurt very badly, and she fidgeted with the hem of her nightgown.

"How's Monty?" Dad asked her gently.

Minerva scratched the kitten's ears as he dozed in her lap. "He likes H—school. I think he catches mice quite a bit, he's getting big." She saw Dad nod out of the corner of her eye.

"Well, I'm glad to have both of you home," he said gently.

Minerva scooped Monty into her arms and went to the arm of Dad's chair to sit down close to him. Right away, he wrapped an arm around her and she pulled her legs into his lap.

"I'm sorry I couldn't answer all of your letters," he told her. "Even I can't keep up with four a week."

Minerva blushed. "They all said the same thing," she admitted, her cheeks burning hot. "I really love school."

"I'm glad," Dad said.

Minerva looked at him closely. Her heart was bursting with the desire to tell him about Quidditch, and her classes, her friends—Alexander, Clare, Augusta, Pomona—and all of her favorite teachers. She held it in; Dad looked tired as he gently scratched Monty's ears.

"What is it?" he asked. "You're staring at me, love."

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I—what time's the Christmas service?"

"Half-past eleven. I'll be going in early. You can have a lie-in and come with your mother."

"No," Minerva said quickly. "Can I come with you?"

Dad frowned. "It'll be awfully early…"

"I want to," she insisted. "Please?"

"All right," he said. "I'd like that. Of course you can. I'll wake you up in the morning."

"Miss Minerva," said Mother gently from the doorway. "It's time for bed."

"Sleep tight," Dad said, giving her a kiss.

"Sleep tight." Minerva lifted Monty onto her shoulder, his favorite place to curl up, and went to her mother, who directed her to the stairs.

"You're going early with your dad tomorrow?" Mother asked. Minerva nodded. "That'll be nice." They crossed the small landing to Minerva's little bedroom, and Mother bent to kiss her. "Good night, darling, I love you—"

"Will you—will you tuck me in?" Minerva asked.

Mother looked surprised. "Well—it's certainly been a while since I've heard that from you, miss."

"It's Christmas," she said quietly. "Almost. And…I missed you."

"Well, I—I missed you too, Minerva," Mother said, taking her hand. "Of _course_ I'll put you to bed." They went together into Minerva's room, and she clambered into bed immediately. Mother sat down beside her, drawing the quilt up to her chin.

"I like sleeping in my own bed," Minerva said, as Monty curled up on her feet.

"That was always my favorite part of coming home, too," Mother told her, smoothing back her hair. "Those four-posters in the dormitories—they're still there, aren't they? Do they still have those same dreadful mattresses?"

Minerva giggled. "Mine's made out of rocks, I'm pretty sure, but Clare's probably going to fall straight through hers to the floor, soon. And Alexander thinks he can take his sledding."

"That sounds about right," Mother laughed. "Now, is Alexander the boy you wrote to me about? Your friend on the Quidditch team?"

"Clare tried out, too. We aren't _really_ on the team," Minerva said. "The Gryffindor team are so big, they've got about thirteen people on already."

"You said there had been trouble at the tryouts, didn't you? You were picked, but then you weren't?"

Minerva wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't ever _really_ picked," she said. "They're letting me be a reserve Chaser, and Alexander and Clare and I get to come to practices and scrimmage games. We're really more like reserves, for the reserves, for the _reserves."_

Mother chuckled. "That doesn't sound like it's particularly fun."

"Well, I get to practice every now and then," Minerva shrugged, "And you were right, I do love flying. But I like Chaser better than Seeker."

Mother smiled. "I started off as a Chaser," she said, her face taking on a dreamy expression that was visible even in the semidarkness of the bedroom. "I was never terribly good, but the other two Chasers were my closest friends…but then they let me try Seeking when Henry Wiggins broke his arm…I was thirteen, and I snatched the lead spot right out from under him," she laughed. "He was glad for it, he didn't want to be on the team anymore, he said."

Minerva giggled. "Well, my friend Pomona said that she heard Professor Dumbledore saying that I was as good as you used to be."

Mother looked down at her. "I don't doubt it," she said. "I'm sure you're better than I ever was." Minerva met her eyes, and they looked at each other for a very long moment. Mother was still toying with her long braid. "You know, Professor Dumbledore sent me a letter," she said, smiling broadly. "He says that you—he says he's rarely found such a brilliant student. You're top of his class."

Minerva felt her cheeks grow warm; ever since she had heard the story of Grindelwald's defeat, she had barely had the courage to speak to Professor Dumbledore outside of answering questions in Transfiguration. She had never even spoken to him without at least ten other first years nearby. "I…I really love it there, Mum."

Mother's voice was very soft when she said, "I couldn't be happier for you, love."


	6. Summer

Okay we're gonna try this. :) Because I would love a mid-week pick-me-up from all you nice people!

* * *

29 June 1948

"Miss McGonagall?"

Minerva jumped. "P-Professor Dumbledore," she squeaked, backing up to the wall. "I was just—I mean—"

"Were you hoping to speak to Professor Dippet?" he asked, his auburn-white beard twitching as he glanced at the gargoyle statue behind Minerva. He was carrying a large pile of exam papers.

She hesitated; she wasn't even sure if students were supposed to know where the headmaster's office was—it was only after annoying Pomona into telling her that she'd been able to learn where to go to find Professor Dippet. She had been just about to give up (Pomona, perhaps intentionally, had failed to mention that the office was protected by a gargoyle and a password), but now was caught, standing totally alone before Albus Dumbledore.

Thankfully, he didn't seem annoyed or even confused by her presence. He hefted his stack of parchment under one arm and smiled at her. "Most unfortunately, Miss McGonagall, the headmaster has departed for the afternoon to attend to urgent business in London. He will be back, but not until later this evening."

Minerva's eyes darted along the floor, and she nodded hurriedly.

"Perhaps there is something I can help you with?" he asked, now sounding genuinely concerned. "I am your Head of House."

Minerva looked up into his face; his eyes seemed to be peering straight through her, into her very heart. In a small voice, she murmured, "I was—I was wondering if—I thought Professor Dippet might…he might persuade Professor Bachet to…" She trailed off, feeling heartily embarrassed. She wondered if it would be possible for her to go the next six years without ever speaking to Professor Dumbledore again.

"You wish to take Arithmancy as a second year?"

Minerva flinched automatically, but it took her a moment to realize that Dumbledore's tone was not the skeptical, superior tone Professor Bachet had used with her when she had plucked up the courage to ask him for special permission. Quite the opposite: his graying eyebrows were lifted in surprise, but his eyes were warm and smiling.

"Miss McGonagall, I don't believe I have ever had a first year student ask permission to take Arithmancy," he told her. "Frankly, many third years prefer to abandon the study before their O.W.L. But you feel you would be ready for the challenge?"

Minerva was ready for this question—beyond ready. It had been three days since exams had ended, and from that moment she had been filled with anxiety at the looming prospect of her summer in Caithness—her first summer as a real witch. Wanting to keep herself busy, Minerva had been examining and preparing her timetable, arranging extra homework for herself, and staying as buried in magic as she could.

"I think I could do it, sir," she said confidently. She reached into her bag and produced a sketch of a timetable she had made for herself. Dumbledore took it from her and peered at it closely. "I've borrowed books on Arithmancy to start studying, and I think that I might fit it in my timetable if I could stop going to two of my study halls."

"You don't need that time to focus on your schoolwork?" Dumbledore asked, looking up at her again.

"I'd still have the other two," Minerva insisted. "And who on earth needs _four_ study halls in a week, honestly, sir?" She heard the words escaping her mouth and immediately turned red, dropping her gaze to the floor again. "Sorry, sir."

Professor Dumbledore laughed. "Not at all, Miss McGonagall." He surveyed her carefully for a moment. Minerva peered up at him and pulled up her shoulders, trying to be a bit taller. "I think that I might be able to have a word with Professor Dippet."

"Really?" she asked, her eyes going wide. "Really, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Really. I make you no promises, of course, that I will be successful," he warned, "but I believe of all my students, you are least in need of four study halls in a week."

"Thank you, sir," she said, feeling a little faint with gratitude and surprise.

"I do have a condition, Miss McGonagall, for giving you my help," he told her. "I hope you won't object."

"No, sir," said Minerva immediately. "What can I do? I can help with anything, I'm very good at cleaning, I can help in the library—" She broke off, because Dumbledore was smiling at her in quiet amusement again.

"Come and visit me, my dear," he said gently, after she had fallen silent. "It is a great pleasure for me to teach someone as naturally apt to Transfiguration as you seem to be. I should like to know if your interests extend beyond taking advanced Arithmancy. Perhaps I can win you over to joining the Transfiguration Society. There is nothing I would like more than to encourage your talents."

Minerva was stunned. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I—erm—" She stared helplessly at him for a moment, lost. "I don't know what to say, sir."

Professor Dumbledore looked off behind her, back down the corridor. "You know, I believe I saw Mr. Kincaid and Miss Cauldwell heading towards the grounds. If you hurry, you might catch them," he suggested helpfully. "It's a lovely day—oh."

Minerva had just hugged him abruptly around the waist. Then she released him just as quickly, and without stopping to say another word or even look at Professor Dumbledore again, she hurried away down the corridor, hoping he couldn't see her wiping her eyes.


	7. Flu Season

YEE! :)

* * *

23 January 1949

"You too, hm?" asked Madam Sprigg, putting a hand to Minerva's forehead. "All right, onto the bed over there behind the curtains, and put on some pajamas. You won't be sleeping in your dormitory until you're over it."

Minerva coughed, nodded, and trudged, her eyes half-shut, to the bed the matron had indicated. She sat down, her head lolling to one side, and she coughed miserably again. She couldn't believe that after all her careful efforts, she had still managed to catch the flu that had been flying around the school.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Minerva opened her bleary eyes just enough to look over at the bed beside hers; Pomona was smiling exhaustedly at her. She looked very pale, and she was bundled up tightly in her dressing gown. Regardless of the circumstances, it was really good to see a friendly face; Minerva had recently been avoiding Augusta, Alexander, Clare, and most of her friends in her own year, trying to keep from getting sick (or so she told herself).

"Nice to be ill right after holidays, isn't it?" Pomona asked. Her voice was hoarse.

"Thrilling," Minerva mumbled.

"I thought I was going to get some revising in for my N.E.W.T.s this week," she grinned, but Minerva just sighed. "Are you all right?"

She shrugged. "Don't feel well," she said, pulling a pair of pajamas towards herself.

"So, did you go home for Christmas?" Pomona coughed, sniffling. Minerva nodded tersely, stood up, and started changing out of her robes. "I didn't mean to offend you," Pomona said, sounding surprised.

Minerva turned pink. "You didn't."

Pomona raised her eyebrows. "So what's wrong?"

Minerva took her time fastening the buttons of her pajama top and folding her robes on the end of the bed. Then she turned around and faced Pomona. "Just…things with my mum and dad…I don't know, I—I like being home, but…it's really hard to explain," she said. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Minerva lifted an eyebrow, and Pomona smirked. "Well…my brother Malcolm, he's started showing signs of magic, and…my mother's really anxious about it. Malcolm—he got mad at Robbie one day, and he cracked three windows."

Pomona winced.

"It wasn't a really relaxing holiday." Minerva sat down on the bed and sighed. "I wish my family was like yours."

"What, just you and your parents all by yourselves?" Pomona laughed, though not unkindly. "That'd probably make things worse."

Minerva gave her a look. "You know what I meant. I—I wish both my parents were…you know. Magical. Or Muggles, even. It'd just be so much easier for them to get along if they were the same," she added quietly.

Pomona leaned back on her pillows, curling herself into a tighter ball under the covers. "I don't think you mean that," she said.

"Don't I?" Minerva said darkly, but she knew that Pomona was right.

"I nearly put you in detention because you were trying to defend your dad, remember?" she laughed. "That was—what, your first day of school?"

"Sort of," Minerva muttered, and Pomona smiled. "It's just…I wish my parents could…I don't understand why everything has to be so difficult for them," she said.

"Whatever's between your mum and dad, it's got nothing to do with you," Pomona said.

"It's got everything to do with me," Minerva insisted. "I'm the one that's a reminder—and Robbie, and now Malcolm's a reminder, too—that my dad doesn't want us to be this way, and that it's all because of my mother ly—" She broke off. Never before had she said the words out loud, had she given voice to her deepest fear. "I definitely didn't mean that," she said shakily.

Pomona held out a hand, and Minerva stared at it. "Not to be indelicate, Minerva, but I puked the last time I sat up, so unless you want me to be sick all over you, come here," she said rather crossly.

Minerva sat forward and took her hand.

"Everything you've ever told me about your dad makes me sure that he loves you a lot, all right? Whatever is so hard—whatever makes him and your mum argue—that's got nothing to do with you, or with Hogwarts. Everyone's got something difficult they have to deal with, Minerva, including your parents. That doesn't mean it's impossible to overcome, right?"

"All right, ladies, that's enough chatter," said Madam Sprigg, coming between the curtains with a tray of potions. "You both need your rest. Under the blankets, McGonagall—and drink this."

Minerva took the goblet full of potion Madam Sprigg handed her and caught Pomona's eye. She winked back as she drank her own medicine.


	8. Animagus

*peers at you from under blanket fort* More Minerva now. *pushes chapter at you, retreats into fort*

* * *

16 December 1951

Minerva drew a deep breath and steeled all her nerves. She pocketed her glasses, tugged her robes straight (taking an extra moment to ensure that her prefect's badge was perfectly even), raised one hand and knocked on the heavy door.

"Come in," called Professor Dumbledore.

She opened the door. "You wanted to see me, Professor?" she asked, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual.

Dumbledore stood up behind his desk, his blue eyes twinkling. "I did indeed. I was hoping to speak to you before your holidays about your request," he said with a smile. "Won't you have a seat?"

Nervously, Minerva sat down. There was a fire in the fireplace, crackling merrily under a glittering golden Christmas wreath on the mantel. "I…I realize I ought to have come in person to ask you. I know I had the chance," she confessed anxiously, "but I only—it was easier to—to write out what I wanted to say, and then I—I sort of…lost my nerve to say it all."

Dumbledore looked amused; she wished he wouldn't, she was feeling terribly embarrassed.

"The only thing I am concerned about," he said, reaching behind him into the stacks of papers on his desk and producing a small, folded-up square of parchment, "is your eagerness to begin this venture at this moment in time. It's been some time since I have had a student enrolled in such a heavy workload as yours, and capable as I know you to be, with your exams coming…"

"Are—are my marks slipping?" Minerva gasped. "I—had no idea—is it bad?"

"Relax, Miss McGonagall," said Professor Dumbledore, holding up one long-fingered hand, and she stammered into silence. "Your marks, to the best of my knowledge, are top-notch. In all _ten_ of your courses, as usual."

"But—then—" she deflated slightly, feeling bewildered.

"I find your ambition to become an Animagus quite admirable. I myself might have pursued it, had I not lost _my_ nerve." He paused and gave her a shrewd look. "That being said, I should like very much to see you enjoying your last years at Hogwarts. I know you relish your academics," he said, forestalling her protest, "but you must know that there is an equal amount of fascination to be found in other aspects of your life? You are a gifted Quidditch player, of course, and you have a wide range of opportunities awaiting you once you leave Hogwarts. There will always be plenty of time for you continue your education. You needn't rush into anything so momentous as this project now."

"Sir, I don't feel rushed," she insisted. "I _want_ to do it."

Dumbledore nodded. "I understand that, and I respect it. But you are no longer a first year, and frankly, my dear, I think you have convinced yourself that studying to become an Animagus is little more than starting Arithmancy studies a year early. I can promise you it is not."

Minerva looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. She could feel tears pricking in the back of her eyes, but she forced her voice to work. "Right," she said, "I—I can study it on my own. When I'm older, maybe. Thank you, Professor." She stared at the reflection of the firelight in Professor Dumbledore's desk.

He leaned forward. "My dear…may I ask you why you want to begin this venture now? Why you feel so strongly?"

Minerva did not look at him. In her heart, she was bursting to say exactly what she felt: _you've clearly never wanted to be anything or anybody else_. "It…it's complicated, sir."

"Complicated," Dumbledore repeated, putting the tips of his fingers together before him, his blue eyes narrowing as he peered at her. "I see." There were several long moments where only the crackling of the fire in the grate could be heard. Then he said gently, "You are very like your mother, you know, Miss McGonagall."

She looked up. "What?"

"You are," he told her, rubbing at his impressively long white-and-auburn beard. "She was ambitious and eager, too. Although…if I may say, she never was quite so persuasive as you are."

"Stubborn, actually," Minerva said dully.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mum calls it—she just says I'm stubborn," she admitted, smiling just a tiny bit, in spite of herself. "I get it from my dad."

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "Do you really?"

"You've never seen anybody rail against transubstantiation like him," Minerva said fervently. Then she hesitated. In five years, and even as a member, and then the president, of the Transfiguration Society, she and Professor Dumbledore had had very few conversations, and almost none of them were so personal as this. "Er—d'you—?"

"I know what it is," Professor Dumbledore laughed. "Your father is a minister, is he not?"

"In Caithness," she said. The lead weight in her stomach was starting to disappear; it was nice to talk about her father with someone who could, at the very least, pretend to understand. She got the distinct impression, however, that he knew precisely what she was talking about.

"You'll be going home to them for the holidays?" Dumbledore asked.

Minerva nodded. "I'm most excited to see Malcolm. He's my youngest brother," she explained. "He misses me—and Robbie, too, I think, but normally they drive each other mad—when we're here." Robbie was a first year in Ravenclaw, thoroughly enjoying his life at Hogwarts and already bemoaning the fact that he and Minerva would be leaving for two weeks to return to Caithness.

"Oh, I can certainly understand that," Professor Dumbledore asked, and something changed in his expression. "It's just the three of you, then?"

"Just us," she nodded. "Robbie's already here, obviously, and Malcolm will be at Hogwarts when I'm a seventh year. They're—well, they're terrors, most of the time but…I do miss being together," she said again. "I hate leaving Malcolm alone, especially. I mean—not alone, of course, my parents are there—it's just—erm—I mean, my dad's so busy," Minerva stammered, trying to backpedal, "And my mother—I mean—"

"I can certainly understand that," Professor Dumbledore said. His graying eyebrows were knit closely over his half-moon spectacles. As usual, his light blue eyes seemed to be gazing right through her, right into her very heart.

"I should go back to Gryffindor Tower," Minerva said, standing up abruptly. "Thanks for reading my letter, Professor." She hurried to the door.

"Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore called. "I should like you to come and see me again, some time after you have sat your O.W.L.s."

"I—we'll have to do careers advice, won't we?" she asked. "And there's always Transfiguration Society. I'm planning the next meeting, sir, I haven't forgotten."

"I should like to revisit this discussion," he said patiently, with another gentle smile. "Perhaps when there is a little less on your plate."

Minerva blinked. "Really?" Professor Dumbledore just smiled. "All—all right, Professor—I mean—thank you, sir—"

"Enjoy your holidays, Minerva," he said kindly. "And give my best wishes to your mother, won't you?"

Minerva frowned; for a moment, he looked very troubled, but in a flicker of the firelight coming from the grate, the expression was gone. "I will, sir. Happy Christmas."


	9. OWLs

First, I have no idea if it's actually going to upload early or not but I've been having serious delay issues with my updates and I think it's screwing with the way you guys are receiving notifications, because a couple of people have pointed out that they can check and see the chapter hours before they get the notification. So I'm trying an earlier upload to try and make up for the delay. Remember, I post at 12:00 midnight in PST - that's GMT-8. So let's try this and see what happens.

Second, I am so annoyed about the formatting that happened with this chapter. Not that I shouldn't have expected it but still. Today I am annoyed about a great many things. :( Make me feel better with your huggy reviews. ;) LOVE YOU!

* * *

31 July 1952

"Good morning, Monty, my love," Minerva said, bending down to scratch his tummy. He had sprawled himself treacherously across the top of the staircase, just out of the way enough that he could escape when he tripped some inattentive member of the household on their way to breakfast. Monty was settling into his new role as the only McGonagall cat; out of respect he left all of Jacob's favorite perches undisturbed and made himself a nuisance elsewhere instead. However, because it was Minerva who had emerged at last from her bedroom, he now meowed excitedly and hopped up to follow her down the stairs.

When she got to the bottom, Minerva swung around the newel post and into the kitchen. Then both she and Monty stopped dead. There were scrambled eggs spattered over every surface in the room, even dripping here and there from the ceiling. Her mother was on her hands and knees in the middle of the floor with the scrub bucket. Her eyes were red.

"What on earth—?"

"Just a little spill," Mother said brightly, without looking up. Monty padded forward, sniffing a bit of egg that was under the table. He licked it up eagerly. "I can handle it, Minerva. Oh—there's a letter for you, love."

Minerva ignored the scroll of parchment sitting on the draining board. "Mother—"

She sat back on her heels, wiping her brow. "Malcolm just got a little annoyed with Robbie, and knocked over his breakfast. That's all," she said. She pointed to the letter again. "It just arrived. You should open—"

"Knocked—Mother, why didn't you wake me? I could've gotten them to behave," Minerva groaned, sinking onto her knees. Monty came over, thinking she wanted to play, and she gave him a little swat. He puffed up his tail and went back to sniffing out bits of egg he could eat. She grabbed a dishtowel and soaked it, starting to clean as well. "Where's Dad?"

"He's gone out," Mother said tensely, dipping her rag into the scrub bucket again.

"Then why don't you get your wand—?" Minerva broke off at the look her mother gave her.

"To be honest, I—I think the boys were more scared than he was, this time," Mother laughed weakly, after a minute or two of silence. Then she sat back again, only this time she went all the way and leaned against the cupboard, covering her eyes with one hand. "Deacon Bixby was coming here for breakfast," she said quietly. "Dad's gone to meet him in the village first."

Minerva's stomach squirmed in discomfort. "I'm sorry, Mother. I should've been here to help."

Mother lowered her hand and looked at her. The lines around her mouth and eyes and the gray that was just starting to appear in her hair were particularly noticeable this summer, just like they were on Dad. "You couldn't have done anything, dear. Boys will be boys, and your brothers are certainly that."

"Where are they now?" Minerva asked, now starting to scrub at the oven door.

"Outside, in the meadow. They needed to calm down," said Mother. Minerva nodded, but she would be having a word with both of her brothers about this later.

"Go get your wand, Mother," she said. "I'll just tell Dad that the boys and I helped, I'll make sure Robbie and Malcolm know what to s—_ouch!"_ Mother had just grabbed her wrist tightly.

"Don't lie to your father about this," Mother said frantically. "You can't lie to him—Minerva, do you hear me? You must _never—"_

"All right," she said, pulling her hand free. "All right, I won't—but—_Mother, _this isn't going to be cleaned up in time for the deacon without—"

Mother seemed to shake herself, and she stood up. "Of course," she said. "I'll—I'll be back, my wand's just upstairs. Just—scrape up what you can, take it out to the rubbish heap."

Minerva nodded once and watched her go. Then she began collecting all of the mess she could reach into a large copper bowl. She stopped at the draining board, where the scroll still sat—and her heart leapt. There was a violet seal on it, embossed with two large letter M's. Her exam results. She tucked the scroll in the pocket of her dress and practically ran out the kitchen door, headed for the rubbish heap in the garden.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

Minerva started and looked up; her father was walking along the dirt road with Deacon Bixby, approaching the garden gate. "Hi, Dad," she called, hastily dumping out the bowl, leaving it on the back porch and running to meet them. "I didn't know you'd be back so soon."

"Minerva's been catching up on some well-deserved rest," Dad chuckled to the deacon, who nodded.

"Your father has been telling me all about how well you've been doing in your schooling," he said. Then he turned to dad and said, "Though how you've managed to send her to such an institution is beyond me, Robert."

Dad put an arm around Minerva. "We are fortunate that Isobel has very gracious, giving relatives."

"How old are you now, my dear?" Deacon Bixby asked, his gray eyebrows furrowing as he surveyed her.

"Seventeen in October, sir," Minerva said.

"Aha," he replied, nodding his head again, "Nearly time for you to finish, then?"

"Two more years, sir."

"And then you'll be back here helping about the house, I imagine? Perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Bixby to invite you round for tea sometime, she does know a number of young gentlemen about your age whom I'm sure would love to meet a girl like you."

"Oh, well—" Minerva began, but Dad gave her a look. "That sounds lovely, thank you."

"Deacon Bixby, it's wonderful to see you again!"

All three of them looked around; Mother stood on the front step, looking as though she hadn't a care in the world. Minerva breathed a little easier—at the very least, the kitchen was clean. Although the deacon's presence forestalled any public displays of tension between her parents, she was certain the respite was only temporary.

"Mrs. McGonagall, a pleasure as always!" said the deacon, coming to shake her hand. "But where are your boys? It's so quiet!"

"They've gone off to catch tadpoles by the creek, I'm sure," Mother said, taking his arm. "Come in, won't you, we can have a cup of tea…"

Minerva let the adults go in ahead of her, then reached into her pocket for the letter and her eyeglasses, which she slid onto her nose. She stepped just to the side of the front door and opened the scroll.

**ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS**

Pass Grades: Outstanding (**O**) Exceeds Expectations (**E**) Acceptable (**A**)

Fail Grades: Poor (**P**) Dreadful (**D**) Troll (**T**)

**MINERVA ISOBEL ROSS MCGONAGALL HAS ACHIEVED:**

Ancient Runes **O**  
Arithmancy **O**  
Astronomy **O**  
Care of Magical Creatures **E**  
Charms **O**  
Defense Against the Dark Arts **O**  
Herbology **O**  
History of Magic **O**  
Potions **E**  
Transfiguration **O**

Her hands were shaking so hard she could scarcely read the page, but there it was, her name and all of her courses. She hadn't just passed—even Care of Magical Creatures and Potions—she had earned ten O.W.L.s, eight with 'Outstanding' marks. Was there a way to check with the Ministry of Magic and make sure there hadn't been a mistake?

Monty, who had apparently come slinking outside when his breakfast had been cleaned off the kitchen floor, meowed loudly and batted at her ankle. She heard footsteps coming toward her, and looked up, expecting to see her mother.

"Come inside, Minerva, it's—Minerva? Are you all right?" Dad looked worried. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I—I got—ten O.W.L.s," she stammered. "Eight top marks."

Dad stared at her for a moment; then, he seemed to force his expression into one of pleasure, though he still looked exasperated. "Congratulations, lass, that's—that's grand. I'm proud of you." He smiled at her. "Now—why don't you come in—help your mother with the tea, we'll talk it over later."

Minerva's heart sank, even as Dad held out a hand for her, still smiling. She covered her disappointment by bending and picking up Monty, who nuzzled against her chin. Dad put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. They walked in the front door. "Keep that letter in your pocket until the deacon leaves, won't you, lass?" he whispered against her ear. She nodded. "Thank you."


	10. Gardening

Ugh I really shouldn't be posting this because I'm ever so teensily behind BUT HERE GOD UGH I JUST LOVE YOU ALL OKAY

* * *

12 August 1952

"Dad? Dad, what are you—will you get down?" Minerva laughed, stepping out the back door of the manse. Her father was standing on the garden wall with a pair of long shears, attempting to prune the large beech tree that shaded most of the yard. "You'll crack your head open, and I won't be able to get you to town by myself."

Mother had taken Robbie and Malcolm with her and a group of neighbors to Dalkeith for a visit to a festival celebrating the town's newly remodeled rail station, so Minerva and her father were quite alone for the day. Dad had given Minerva permission to skip the outing owing to her _tremendous_ need to complete the homework she had actually finished in July; he would stay home with her to 'supervise.' Mother knew it was a charade, because Minerva avoided festivals and busy public gatherings even more deftly than Dad, but she'd made no protests and let them stay behind.

Dad leaned back and balanced himself on the wall, wiping his forehead on his rolled-up sleeve. "I'm fine, lass!"

"Why don't you borrow the Macaulays' ladder?" she said. "I don't feel like explaining to Mother how you fell off the wall when she gets back."

"It's only a few branches, Minerva," he assured her, taking a step to the side and reaching out with the shears again.

"All right—Dad—just, get down, all right? I'll do it."

Dad hesitated and looked down at her as she removed her apron. She made an exasperated noise. "Not like _that_," she said, feeling a rush of impatience. "I've got a longer reach than you. Get down."

"I think not," Dad said in a shocked tone, but he smiled and offered Minerva a hand to climb up. She steadied herself and stood up on the wall as he jumped down.

"What do you want cut?" she asked, hefting the shears and opening and closing them a few times.

He pointed. "There's a big branch right on top, there, do you see?"

"The dead one?"

"Aye, with the brown leaves. Cut that, will you?" Dad scratched the top of his head, watching her balance and reach out with the shears.

In a few clips, the bit of branch tumbled down, landing with a _whump_ on the tree's roots. Dad directed her to the next branches, inserting anecdotes about a massive chestnut tree outside his childhood home whose branches had gotten too heavy, and one night a particularly large one snapped off and fell right through the dining room window, smashing most of the china and furniture.

"And your granddad—here, that one, Minerva, just on the left—he always knew to make the best of a bad situation, he did," Dad said, pointing at another dead twig, "so he hewed the great branch into our new dining table, and used the twigs and the littler branches to make new chairs."

"Ah-huh," Minerva grinned, walking slowly over the bricks. This was a very old, very embellished story. "And what did he do for the china? This one? Got it." _Clip._

Dad looked thoughtful. "He took the biggest leaves and baked them dry into plates."

Minerva laughed. "All right, how does it look—argh!"

Under Minerva's right foot, one of the bricks wobbled loose from the top of the wall, and she lost her balance. For a moment, she flailed her arms like a windmill—and then she fell backwards, right over the wall. The hedge clippers flew twenty feet away, over her head, and she flung out all her limbs at once, trying to break her fall. Her left foot made contact with the ground first, but with a nasty-sounding _crack_, she landed hard on her backside.

"Minerva!"

At her father's shout, she sat up in the overgrown grass, coughing the wind back into her lungs. There was a sharp, horrible pain in the lower part of her left leg, and half a glance at the odd angle of her ankle was enough to make her stomach churn. She quickly looked up at the sky, taking a few deep breaths.

"Are you all right? Hey, are you all right?"

She jumped. It wasn't her father who had called to her, though he was already jogging around the side of the house. Tom Macaulay, the sixteen-year-old son of their nearest neighbor, was sprinting towards her. He skidded to a stop and made a face when he saw her leg, stretched out before her. She hastily yanked her skirt down and made to stand up.

"Careful!" Tom cried, dropping down on his knees. "I wouldn't do that—"

"Minerva!" Dad gasped, coming to a stop beside Tom. "Oh, Minerva, love—"

"It's nothing, Dad," she tried to assure him, though she looked at her foot again and felt another nauseated twist of her stomach. Nonetheless, she fixed him with a fierce stare and placed her hands on the ground, ready to get up. "I'm—"

"We've got to get you to the doctor. That's a bad break, it's already swelling," Tom said, crouching down and bringing his pale, pimply face close to Minerva's and peering into her pupils. "Did you hit your head?"

She recoiled; it had been many, many years since Sunday school, the only time she and Tom had ever encountered each other at all.

"No, I didn't. I'm all right, I tell you, I—"

She looked up at Dad, willing him to read her mind, to make Tom leave. But he either couldn't or didn't want to. He simply stared down at her, horrorstruck.

"Minerva—perhaps it would be best to see a doctor," he said, positively ashen.

"Dad, _no—_"

"Here, let's get you to the truck—I heard you scream from the road, I thought you'd really done something to yourself. Lucky thing I was passing by," Tom said, and before Minerva could do anything but squawk and try to twist away from him, he scooped her up in his arms. "'Scuse me, minister," he said to Dad. "We'll go to Dr. Gibson?"

"Yes, Tom…fine," Dad said quietly, following them up to the road. His eyes were wide and shocked, and he apparently could not see that Minerva's furious gaze was undeterred by his apparent departure from sanity.

"We'll get you fixed right up, Minerva," Tom told her brightly. "Don't you worry a moment!"

* * *

Mother and the boys didn't arrive home until nearly eleven o'clock that night, which meant that Minerva was in pain and fuming for hours after Tom Macaulay had deposited her and her father back at the manse. She was lying on the downstairs sofa and glowering at her wooden crutches, which were propped up against the wall, when her father came into the sitting room with a tea tray.

"Your mother will be home soon," he said for the hundredth time. He dropped a single sugar cube in Minerva's teacup; she pulled herself up into a sitting position and accepted it from him. Her broken ankle was elevated on a stack of pillows and covered in a plaster cast that went to her knee, so Dad sat down in Mother's chair.

"Will you say something, lass? You haven't spoken since we got you home," he said gently.

Minerva took a slow sip of tea, and lowered her cup. She didn't look at him, but nodded at her cast. "This is medieval."

Dad didn't say anything for a moment. "I—I'm sorry, Minerva, but I had no choice. I know you like your mother around for this sort of thing, but—"

"Because she can mend it in about half a second," Minerva told him, her irritation growing, though it was mostly fueled by frustration and the pain in her ankle. "There was no reason you couldn't have sent Tom Macaulay away!"

"I didn't know what to do, Minerva," he said quietly. "I've never been so scared in all my life."

Minerva ignored him. "And now I've got to be here for three more weeks, stuck with _this!_ And it _hurts!"_

Dad's voice became even softer. "I'm sorry."

Minerva couldn't bring herself to say anything more; she was too angry and too sore. She folded her arms and glared at the wall.

"I'm sorry I've got you stuck," said Dad. "I—I'd never want you to feel trapped. I don't want you to be anywhere you don't want to be."

Her mouth fell open, and she looked around at him. "That's—that's not what I meant at all," she spluttered. "Dad, that's—that's not fair, that's not what I said!"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I know you must feel that way, though. Some of the time. Like you have to make a choice. I don't want to be the one to force you one way or the other, Minerva."

"I—I'm—"

"We're home! My goodness, Robert, with all the lights on and everything?" Mother's voice called from the front hall. "What on earth are you two doing aw—_Minerva!" _She had rounded the corner into the sitting room, with Robbie and Malcolm just behind her. "Oh, darling, what _happened?"_

"Whoa, Minerva!" Robbie said. "What'd you do? Look at these!" He hurried over to look at the crutches with Malcolm. Mother came straight to Minerva's side and knelt beside the sofa, taking Minerva's hands.

"She's all right, Isobel," Dad said, rising to make room for her. He stood at a cautious distance, watching as Isobel examined every inch of Minerva's scrapes and bruises, and told her all that had happened. He didn't even flinch when he said that he hadn't objected to Tom Macaulay helping him take Minerva to the doctor's office, but she crossed her arms more tightly.

"So Dr. Gibson says she'll be all right. She could use a bit of your help, though, I imagine," he said finally. "Boys, that's enough," he added, for Malcolm had seized Minerva's crutches and started hopping around the room on them, swinging his legs wildly. "Let your mother and sister alone, it's time for bed."

"Dad! We're not babies, we don't have a bedtime," Robbie informed him.

"In this house you do, Robert," Isobel said, snapping her head around to look at him. She was white to the lips. "Do as your father says, now."

"At least let us see what Mum does to fix it," Malcolm whined. "I never get to see—"

"I'll tell you all about it tomorrow," Minerva said loudly, pushing herself up. "Really, I promise, Malcolm. Just get to bed, I'll see you in the morning."

Malcolm frowned. "Are you all right?" he asked.

For the first time all evening, Minerva smiled; it was even a tiny bit genuine. "I'll be fine. Just do what Dad says, will you?"

Without any more than a few grumbling sounds of disagreement, Robbie and Malcolm stumped out of the sitting room. Dad followed, keeping his eyes away from Minerva, who sank back on the couch, feeling miserable.

"Does it hurt much?" Mother asked quietly, when they had gone. Minerva closed her eyes.

"I made a real mess of things with Dad," she said, mostly to herself.

"I doubt that," Mother said rather shortly, getting up. Almost absently, she checked the teapot. "I'll get you more hot water."

"If I have another cup of tea, I'll explode," said Minerva. Mother stared at her. "I—I'm sorry about all this. I'm all right, though," she offered.

Mother sighed. "You're exactly alike, the pair of you. Neither one of you ought to have been up on that wall. If it wasn't you here, it would have been him…" She shook her head. "I'm going to get my things. I've still got some remedy books, I'm sure. I won't be a minute."

"Mum—I don't know if you should," Minerva said. "Dr. Gibson's calling tomorrow to see how I am—"

"I think I can put together enough of a trick for Dr. Gibson," Mother said, her voice suddenly like ice. She stood in the doorway, staring piercingly at her. "I won't have you in pain this way, Minerva."

"What about Dad?" Minerva asked.

"For heaven's sake, do you _want_ me to leave it until you go back to school?" Mother snapped. Minerva shut her mouth. "I—I'm too tired to worry about this, Minerva. Your father isn't stupid. He understands—he loves the three of you too much to let any of you suffer. My God, you know him well enough to know that, don't you? Give the poor man some credit. _Why_ are you looking at me that way?"

"N-nothing," Minerva stammered, her eyes wide. She didn't know what else she could say. She had never heard her mother say anything like this before.

"Now, I'm going to get my wand. Just—stay here, and—think about what you'll have to say to your father in the morning," Mother said. "This isn't your fault, and it's not his, but I'm exhausted of seeing the two of you—" she shut her eyes suddenly, like she was trying to hold back tears. "I'll be back."

And she left the room, leaving Minerva alone with her thoughts.


	11. Tabby

Your wishes are my commands. Love you all. I've got a long day ahead of me, so leave me some love for tonight!

* * *

24 May 1953

Minerva rubbed her eyes behind her glasses with the tips of her index fingers and sighed. Then she took her glasses off and dropped them on the table.

"What _is_ the matter, Minerva?" Augusta Fawley snapped. She sat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, where Monty was curled up on the mantel, asleep; Minerva and Clare Cauldwell were sharing a study table in the deserted Gryffindor common room. It was almost one o'clock in the morning.

Minerva started and looked up at her.

"You're being a bit loud," Clare said calmly, giving her a smile. Minerva shook her head.

"I'm sorry. I just…I can't get the hang of the actual _transformation_, you know, I—I understand everything I have to do," she said, getting up. "I can recite it all, I've—"

"—Read every book, done every bit of preparation," Clare finished for her. "Right. Then what's the problem?"

"I don't know," Minerva said, dropping into the chair beside Augusta's. Monty poked his head up and hopped off the mantel, heading straight for her lap. She rubbed his tummy as he wriggled around comfortably.

"No," Augusta said sharply. "No, that's no longer an acceptable answer. I'm sick and tired of hearing it."

"So am I," moaned Alexander Kincaid's disembodied voice. He was lying somewhere in the shadows by the bookshelves at the back of the common room, his favorite place to sit when it was quiet. When last Minerva had seen him he had fallen asleep in the middle of developing a new Quidditch feint for the team to try out; it seemed he had woken up.

"Don't lurk, Kincaid, come out from there," Clare called to him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking at Minerva. His wavy brown hair was practically standing on end.

"Anything for you, my sweet," he beamed at Clare.

Augusta rolled her eyes. "Yes, well, returning to the point," she said, facing Minerva, "I don't know what to tell you except to talk to Professor Dumbledore."

"He doesn't even think I should be doing this," Minerva confessed morosely, wriggling lower in the seat. Monty mewed, and she scratched his ears. "I keep thinking he's going to send a letter home to my parents every time I try to meet with him outside of our regular appointment time. He thinks I've taken on too much."

"You're in more classes than I am," said Clare.

"Than any of us, actually," offered Alexander. "Maybe it is too much."

"It's not too much," said Minerva. "I can handle it."

"Maybe dropping a few classes would be best for your balance, Minerva," said Augusta wisely. "After all, I've found it wonderful to have the spare time without Charms or Care of Magical Creatures in my timetable."

"Yeah, _that's_ why you quit Charms," snorted Alexander. Augusta snapped her head around and gave him a fearsome look.

Minerva smiled rather miserably at Monty, who stared at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Minerva," said Clare, laying down her quill and looking at her. "Look, it took you some time to get the hang of Apparition, right? Almost four lessons, and you still got your license just fine. You just need practice. How many times have you tried the transformation?"

"About a hundred and fifty," she replied in a hollow voice. "I'm so tired."

"Maybe you need a break," said Clare kindly.

Minerva closed her eyes. Over by the corner, she heard a snore; Alexander had probably fallen asleep again.

Then there was a rustling sound as Augusta stood up. "I'm going to bed," she announced. "It's late. Coming, Minerva? Clare?"

Minerva shook her head.

"In a minute, Augusta," said Clare.

Augusta sighed gently. "Good night, then," she said in her lofty way.

"Mm," Minerva mumbled, as Alexander continued to snore. She opened her eyes again and got up, lifting Monty onto her shoulders. She returned to Clare's study table and stared down at the textbook on the table, listlessly turning a page.

"You'll get it, Minerva," Clare told her. "I'm sure of it. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

Minerva hugged her elbows. "It's what I'm good at."

Clare frowned at her. "You're mad, you know that, don't you?"

She scoffed and sat down. Monty meowed, slid down her shoulder like a scarf, and curled up in her lap again. "Yes, I do."

"Really, though, Minerva, I don't know why you're acting like this is so impossible," said Clare. "And look, I'm not your mum, I don't care about making you feel good about yourself," she put on a mock-thoughtful expression, "But I'd say you're pretty good at Transfiguration—_and_ you're working with Dumbledore. So let's talk about what animal you want to be instead of wondering if you can do it or not."

"That's not how it works," Minerva told her. "It's like a Patronus. You don't choose, it just…reflects you."

"I wonder what our Patronuses would be," Clare said thoughtfully. "We're meant to learn, aren't we?"

"Next year, I think. I heard Dumbledore talking to Professor Abbott," said Minerva. She picked up Monty, hugging him close. "I think yours would be something wild. Maybe like a wolf."

Clare narrowed her eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Me? Never."

"If I'm a wild animal," Clare said, leaning across the table, "then you're a house pet. Maybe a rabbit. Or a cat."

"Ooh, Monty, a cat," Minerva grinned, kissing the top of his head. "Wouldn't you like that?" There was a grunting snore from Kincaid's corner, and she looked at Clare.

"A sloth," Clare whispered.

"Definitely. What about Augusta?" Minerva asked.

"Is there even a question? A peacock," she giggled, and Minerva burst out laughing. "Think about it," Clare insisted. "She's got all those older brothers, she's the only girl—she's pretty, she's smart, and she knows it!"

"We're bad people," Minerva snickered into her hand.

"Oh, it's all in fun," Clare waved a hand. "Really, though, you'd never catch a girl who's got sisters preening like she does in the mornings. My dad's never been able to fix the lock on the loo at our house. You're lucky if you get two minutes in there to yourself." Clare was Muggle-born, and she had three younger sisters, a set of triplets, who were very likely on their way to Hogwarts in the next year, just like Malcolm would be. She began packing up her things.

"And what about me? I've got brothers. Do I preen?" Minerva asked. Monty put his front paws up on the table and sniffed at Minerva's glasses, which still lay on the table. She pulled him back, stroking him from head to tail; the earpieces on this pair bore enough tiny feline teeth marks.

"_We_ are _firstborn_, Minerva," said Clare, with a toss of her hair. _"Honestly."_

Minerva laughed, still rubbing Monty's head. "I really did want to manage it before N.E.W.T. year," she said rather sadly. "I don't think I'll get any practice in this summer."

"It's not even June yet," Clare reminded her.

"Exams are coming, though."

Clare shrugged and yawned. "I'm going up," she said, hefting her bag on her shoulder. "Coming?"

Minerva nodded. "I'm going to try a few more times. I'll be up."

"I probably shouldn't leave Kincaid sleeping on the floor like that. Dumbledore might not like it," Clare sighed. She marched over to where he was sprawled on the floor and nudged him with her foot. "Kincaid. Alex. Alexander. Up you get…"

Minerva was standing up trying to clear her mind—this was difficult, as she was very aware of where Alexander and Clare were in the room.

"Help me up, my head hurts…"

"Your hand's going to hurt in another minute if you don't take it off my ankle. You can stand, you great buffoon…"

Minerva blocked out the noise and counted, drawing a deep breath. _One—two—three._ She opened her eyes and looked down at her utterly human body.

"You smell lovely this evening, Clare," Kincaid was saying.

"I'm going to curse you into next Thursday, and I hope you don't think I'm joking," Clare told him.

Minerva picked up her glasses, slipped them on, and glared at her textbook once more. Concentration, it said, was key to success.

She gripped her wand tightly, still trying to block out Clare and Kincaid, who were now arguing about an ill-advised move to brush a stray hair back from Clare's face. She giggled, despite herself, and tried to recollect her concentration.

_One—two—three_.

* * *

Minerva was waiting for Professor Dumbledore when he arrived at his office the next morning. He paused when he saw her, looking rather confused. He glanced up and down the corridor and took another step towards her. Then he froze.

"Miss McGonagall?"

Minerva stretched herself luxuriously, wriggling her claws out and twitching her tail. She meowed proudly.


	12. Quidditch

HI KIDDOS! I'm sorry I didn't do a midweek post; my stockpile of pre-written chapters is a bit slim at the moment (so much BUSY my goodness). I'll try and build up over the weekend!

FORGIVE ME! (Because this is a lovely long chapter yes? Yes.)

* * *

16 April 1954

"Get ready for the Feint!" Kincaid bellowed at Minerva as she lobbed the Quaffle at him. "Now, before they see you're missing!"

Minerva threw up a hand to show she'd heard and rocketed straight upward on her broomstick, narrowly avoiding a collision with five green and silver comets that had come hurtling after Kincaid. She shot to the far end of the pitch, dodging both Bludgers, which had only just realized that all their targets were conveniently forming a frenzy at the Gryffindor goalhoops.

Minerva swung a sharp about-face and hovered, weaving back and forth, far above and just behind the sightline of Felicia Avery, the Slytherin Keeper. Far at the other end of the pitch, the tangle of scarlet and gold players was swirling—it almost looked like punches were being thrown, but Mr. Pringle, the referee, seemed to have trouble spotting a foul to call.

"Gryffindor trailing by a hundred and ten, and still no sign of the Snitch!" shouted the announcer (a second year called David Cleary), his voice magically magnified over the stands. Minerva's stomach twisted anxiously; it was unlike Taylor, the Gryffindor Seeker, to allow a match to go on so long. He and the Slytherin Seeker, Vaisey, were circling the tangled knot of players, undoubtedly shouting insults at each other as they both searched frantically for the Golden Snitch.

Minerva chewed the inside of her lower lip, forcing herself to focus on the red backs she thought were Kincaid and Barclay, her fellow Chasers. If Clare could just block the goal and get the Quaffle back to Kincaid—there was a huge gasp from the Gryffindor crowd, but—no, the Quaffle had gone back to the Slytherins. Minerva nearly swore, but she couldn't give up her position to Felicia…not when she was letting her guard down enough that she had drifted almost twenty feet away from her goalposts just to watch the match…

"AND IT'S RANDALL BARCLAY WITH THE QUAFFLE! Gryffindor charge back up the pitch—"

Minerva stared, frozen—if Barclay, who was nowhere near as good a passer as Kincaid, was planning on trying to carry out the Chaser Feint—but he wouldn't be that foolish. Kincaid and Minerva had the Feint down to a science—Barclay surely wouldn't ruin the secret weapon—

"Barclay lobs the Quaffle—but it's high—no, wait—that's McGonagall, coming in with a dive—"

"I'll kill you, Barclay!" Minerva screamed as she dove for the Quaffle—it was inches from Felicia's fingertips when she snatched it up. In one fluid movement, Minerva drew up from her dive—there was another great gasp from the crowd—and hurled the Quaffle as hard as she could into the goalhoop that Felicia had left unprotected.

It soared through, and the mass of Gryffindor supporters—most of the school, for nobody had enjoyed seeing Slytherin win the Cup last year—let out a cheer that made the very air vibrate. Minerva shot forward on her broom, eager to duck out of the way of the swinging bats of the Slytherin Beaters.

"Still going to kill me?" Barclay shouted as he caught up with her, heading back to defend their goal.

"Definitely!" she yelled, though she was grinning, and she put could still hear him laughing as she put on a burst of speed. She drew her broom about for another hairpin turn, crouching low over the broom, which was when a Bludger hit her, hard, directly in her side.

The crowd below shouted in horror as Minerva spiraled off above the stands. She barely managed to cling to her broom—instinctively, she gasped for air, but the pain of it nearly blacked out her vision. She most assuredly had several broken ribs; she could feel sharp, stabbing pains in her left side. She looked up, grimacing, into the faces of the two Slytherin Beaters, Clarke and Podge, who were chuckling stupidly and pointing at her. Pringle hadn't noticed the illegal hit, to the boos and outraged shouts of the crowd.

"That's a time-out for Gryffindor!" shouted David Cleary, as a whistle blew.

Clare came shooting up to Minerva, closely followed by the rest of the team.

"Are you all right?" Clare demanded, looking terrified. "That should've been a foul!" she shouted at Kincaid, who was too busy making an obscene gesture at Pringle to respond. Minerva, say something!"

"I'm fine," Minerva said, though she was hunched over on her broom, clutching her ribs in pain. "I'm okay, I—_ouch—"_

"She can't even sit up!" said Duncan Kilcourse, a Beater. "We've got to let her sit out, get a reserve—"

"No!" Minerva barked, looking up at him.

Ricky Taylor had come hurtling over to the huddle, but Kincaid pointed at him. "Keep looking for the Snitch!"

"All right, Minerva?" Taylor shouted, and she waved at him, but winced.

"Look," she said, gingerly straightening up, "all we need is for Ricky to catch the Snitch…and a few more goals wouldn't hurt…but you two can do that," she said, pointing at Kincaid and Barclay. "I'll be a decoy, something—I'll stay out of the way—"

There was another long, loud whistle.

"Don't have a choice, now," Clare said, with grim satisfaction. She and Minerva nodded at each other. "Let's go."

Clare shot off back to the goalposts, and the five remaining players took their place in their V formation. Kincaid led, while Minerva flanked his left; behind her was Kilcourse, and Barclay and Hannah Atkins, the other Beater, took the right side.

Trying not to breathe too hard, Minerva plummeted into a dive as the Quaffle was released once again; Kincaid caught it expertly, as Barclay, seventy feet over her head, led the charge towards the Slytherin hoops once more. Minerva copied his movements, only fifteen feet above the ground. Kincaid flew between them, aimed right at Felicia.

"A risky move by the Gryffindor Chasers—we've seen this kind of flying from McGonagall before, but—ah, there are the Beaters!"

Hannah had just slammed a Bludger at Felicia Avery, who only just ducked in time. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Minerva saw Ricky Taylor dropping into a dive—there was no mistaking it—

"Gryffindor's Taylor has seen the Snitch! Vaisey hot on his tail—"

Minerva forced her attention away, back to assisting this goal. She shot upwards, ready to tip the pass through the hoop—

"Foul! THAT'S A FOUL! THAT'S—"

There was a terrible, wrenching pain in the back of Minerva's head, and in the split-second that she saw her teammates' faces, just before her broom went flying out of her hands, she knew what had happened—Felicia Avery, desperate to get back to the goalhoops, had seized her long braid and pulled.

For a moment, Minerva was weightless, watching as her broom flew out of her grip—and then she clawed at the air, fighting viciously against what she knew was about to happen—

Then something slammed into her, and she knew no more.

* * *

"Minerva, say something, will you? Are you in there?"

"Minerva?"

"Robbie?" she mumbled, opening her eyes. She flinched; those were smelling salts under her nose. She blinked hazily and saw both of her brothers standing over her; then the worried faces of her teammates swam into view, gathered behind them_. _They were all still in their Quidditch robes, but the sun was going down; the match had to have ended hours ago. Her head was throbbing horribly and her midsection hurt, but she felt all right otherwise.

Robbie, who had his arm around Malcolm, relaxed visibly and smiled at her. Minerva blinked again. "What are you all doing here?"

"We thought we should take a break from the celebrations to say thanks," Kincaid said, grinning at her. "You saved the match."

"We…we won?" Minerva asked, forcing her eyes to stay open. She lifted her head dazedly. "We won the Cup?"

"Take a look," Robbie said, pointing. There, on the table at the foot of her bed, was the enormous silver Quidditch Cup.

"Heh," she laughed, and then winced, rubbing her side. "And you all ditched the party to come and see me?"

"How do you feel?" Clare grinned.

"Homicidal," she glowered. "Where's Avery? I owe her one."

"If you sit up, Miss McGonagall, I will have to restrain you," Madam Sprigg's sharp voice said. Minerva looked up to her left; the matron was still standing over her, smelling salts in hand. "Your back was broken, six of your ribs fractured, and you have a concussion. Lie still. The rest of you have five minutes—yes, you too, gentlemen," she said to Robbie, who scowled, and Malcolm, who still hadn't spoken but whose eyes were very red. "Your sister needs rest."

"I'm pretty sure it's the biggest hit anyone's taken in a Hogwarts Quidditch match," Kincaid said, as Madam Sprigg marched away. "But all the Slytherins were so angry about the foul getting called, they didn't notice Ricky catching the Snitch." He clapped Ricky on the shoulder.

"Nice catch," Minerva grinned at him, and he flushed red.

"And you don't need to worry about Avery, either," Robbie said, "We heard Slughorn's already banned her from Hogsmeade, and it sounds like she's getting about a month of detention, too." He grinned at Malcolm, who just stared down at his feet. Minerva surreptitiously took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers. Robbie had seen her fly dangerously a number of times; he had done it himself, as a Ravenclaw reserve. But Malcolm was only a first year. He had never seen such a violent Quidditch match before.

"Augusta says she got kicked off the Gobstones team, too," said Clare. "I guess even that Prince girl hates cheaters."

"Slytherins," Kincaid made a face.

Minerva sighed and closed her eyes again, feeling ill.

"Minerva?" Robbie asked nervously.

"'M fine. My head's spinning," she said sleepily.

"This will fix that," said Madam Sprigg, who had come back with a positively alarming collection of potions arranged on a tray.

"We should let you rest," Kincaid said. Minerva smiled at him, and he gave her a grin.

"We'll come and say hi tomorrow. Augusta wants to see you," Clare promised. "Come on, boys, we'll let you in the common room…" She put an arm around Malcolm and another around Robbie. Minerva smiled at her gratefully.

"Feel better, McGonagall," said Kincaid, and the words were echoed by her teammates.

"Don't forget the Cup," Minerva said, pointing at it.

"You get to keep it," Clare said happily. "At least until tomorrow. We'll try and save some sweets for you!"

"Feel better, Minerva," said Robbie, patting her shoulder. Malcolm nodded once, fervently, and turned to follow Clare and Robbie. Minerva waved at them as they left and settled back again.

"I don't know what they expect me to do with that," Madam Sprigg huffed, pouring out a gobletful of medicine. "Mr. McGonagall—"

Minerva opened her eyes just in time to see Malcolm hurrying back towards her. He flung his arms tightly around her, and she winced, but hugged him back. She closed her eyes. "I'm all right," she told him quietly, directly in his ear. "I promise I am."

"I thought you were dead," he mumbled into her shoulder.

She had no idea what to say; how could she possibly respond? She hugged him more tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow," she told him. "Go with Robbie, now."

Malcolm nodded again and pulled back. He gave her a watery smile and hurried after Clare and Robbie again. Minerva watched until he had disappeared through the hospital wing doors until she sat back again.

Madam Sprigg, who had had the grace to turn away for the moment, now faced Minerva again. "All right, bottoms up, McGonagall."

Minerva drank the potion, gazing at the Quidditch Cup. Victory was sweet, of course, especially when Gryffindor had repeatedly fallen just short of the championship since her third year…but now that they'd won, and now that she knew she was all right, there was nothing to stop her from imagining the many ways in which she might exact her revenge upon Felicia Avery and the Slytherin team…


	13. Commencement

I gave myself a sad... :(

* * *

23 June 1954

Minerva knocked on Professor Dumbledore's office door. There was no answer; she knocked again, more loudly.

"Come in," he called. She pushed open the door, tears burning in the corners of her eyes. "Ah, good evening, Miss McGonagall."

She swallowed, trying not to tremble. "Evening, sir. How are you?"

Dumbledore spread his hands and shrugged at the massive piles of parchment, which looked like diplomas and certificates, stacked all over his desk. "I am buried, as is usual for the time of year, in paperwork. It seems that Hogwarts graduates more witches and wizards each year. Or perhaps my desk has gotten smaller." Minerva sat down in one of the upholstered chairs across from him as he moved a stack of diplomas out of the way so he could see her.

"When do you go to London?" he asked, when she did not speak. He had given Minerva the letter of recommendation that had tipped the scales in her favor for a job opening in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; he was good friends with the head of the department and she had accepted the position only a week ago.

"September," she said quietly, pulling the end of her braid over her shoulder and twisting it round her finger. "I start on the first."

Dumbledore's silvery brows knit. "You know, it was once rather the fashion for all newly graduated Hogwarts students to tour the continent; sometimes the world. I myself never went, but many of my classmates did. I've always highly recommended the practice. Have you—?"

"I'm going to Caithness. No world travel for me," she said. Professor Dumbledore was still frowning. "Well, I—well, really, I didn't go home for Easter because of that wretched license exam. My parents haven't seen me since Christmas. I _do _need to visit."

Dumbledore linked his fingers together. "And do you feel ready for the challenges that will be presented to you?"

"I don't mind living with Muggles," said Minerva, almost dismissively.

"I was referring to the Ministry, Miss McGonagall," said Dumbledore, sounding a little surprised.

She blinked. "I…I think so. I really like the idea—and I like what I've read about Magical Law Enforcement."

"I should think so," Professor Dumbledore said with a smile. "You've been enforcing school rules here since you arrived. You could easily have been the youngest prefect in the history of Gryffindor House."

Minerva crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, thinking for a moment. "I'm not _thrilled_ about Caithness," she confessed. "But…I mean, once I start at the Ministry, I don't know…" she trailed off.

"It might be difficult to see much of your family," he supplied.

"My dad. We—we've gotten on pretty well, lately, and we've been writing to each other quite a bit, but…" And, unexpectedly, the tears she had been holding in welled up in her eyes.

Professor Dumbledore's face clouded instantly. "What is the matter, Minerva?"

Her chin shook. "My—my p-parents can't come," she said. "They can't—come to the ceremony."

There was a ringing silence.

"I see."

"There's—nothing to be done, right?" she asked through clenched teeth, staring at the door. "You can't—even if they could get here—he couldn't—?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear," he replied gently. "It is Professor Dippet's duty to keep the school as secure as possible. We cannot lower any wards on the castle, for any reason. But I can tell you that I am deeply sorry about it."

Minerva drew a ragged breath and nodded jerkily. "Right," she said. "Right, I—I just—stupid question," she said, and her tears spilled over. She dropped her head, shuddering with a quiet sob. She steadied herself, trying to keep control. "I just thought—if he could—if he could see it all…" she said quietly, trailing off.

"I…am at a loss for words," Dumbledore said. "I'm sorry, Miss McGonagall."

Minerva hastily wiped her cheeks. "My mother—she doesn't want to leave him up there alone," she said, her throat dry. "So I'm just—I'm to graduate, and then bring the boys home."

She took a shaky breath, pressing the heels of her palms against her forehead. "I—I'm furious."

"I don't blame you, my dear," he said gently.

"I shouldn't be, but …I can't help it," Minerva mumbled, pressing her face into her hands. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't want to bother you. I—I didn't want to worry Robbie and Malcolm, and…my friends, they're…I didn't know who to…"

"You are no bother, Minerva." Professor Dumbledore's tone was so suddenly sharp, and his use of her first name so rare, that Minerva felt a little jolt down her spine, and sat up straighter. Then her eyes filled with tears again, and he produced a handkerchief for her.


	14. Farmer

So this isn't late because I didn't write it...I just honest-to-god forgot about days of the week and how they work; that is the life I have had lately.

SO HERE I AM, LATE BUT BEAMING/TIPPING OVER SLIGHTLY FROM EXHAUSTION. HUG ME.

Also I know how stoked some of y'all have been about Dougal. I have something special planned for the next few updates. :) HERE WE GO!

* * *

3 July 1954

"Oh, Minerva…I couldn't be prouder of you," Mother said, gazing down at the brass and wood plaque she held in her hands. She looked up and smiled. "Where shall we hang it?"

"It's got the seals of the Ministry and _Transfiguration Today_ on it, Mother," Minerva reminded her, huffing as she stowed her wand with her robes and all the books she could fit, shut the lid of her trunk, and shoved the whole thing under her bed. "It's not hanging anywhere in the house."

Her mother's face fell, and Minerva felt a little bit of guilt. All the same, she held out a hand for the Most Promising Newcomer Award, one of three recognitions she had received (top marks in all her subjects over seven years and Excellence in N.E.W.T. Studies) upon leaving Hogwarts. Mother handed it to her, and Minerva tucked it in a drawer of the nightstand, behind a stack of parchment and a few inkbottles.

She brushed her hands together. "There. Good as new."

"I _am _sorry we didn't make it, love. Really, I am." Mother was watching her sadly. "I felt—I couldn't just leave your father behind."

"I know that," Minerva said. "I know. It's all right," she added brusquely, rubbing her hands on her skirt. She pushed away the nasty, aching, guilty feelings. The ceremony had been less than a week ago; surely she could be annoyed at her parents for missing it just a little while longer? _It wasn't _really_ their fault_, said the small, traitorous voice of maturity in the back of her head.

"I was thinking we'd have beef stew tonight?" Mother asked quietly. "It's your favorite, and we really don't have you here for too long…"

"Sounds nice, Mum, thanks," Minerva said briefly, brushing a kiss against her cheek as she passed to the bookcase, her arms now laden with spellbooks. She started sliding her books into their hiding places on the shelves. If she'd had any sense at all, she wouldn't be bothering with this; she could have been traveling with most of her friends who were also starting jobs at the Ministry and who had gone straight to London, or would be there soon to hunt out flats and houseshares.

Instead, she had eight solid weeks in Caithness. Eight weeks to do her mother's shopping, to keep the boys out of trouble (their most recent mischief had involved Monty, who now refused to leave his hiding spot under Minerva's bed), and to say goodbye to this strange, foreign life in the Muggle world, in which Minerva had not felt entirely at home for years.

"Where's my girl?"

Minerva started, shoved her Potions book behind some older volumes on the shelf, and looked at her mother, who was smiling in a strained way. "You didn't say he was coming home early," she whispered.

"I didn't know," Mother replied, as the bedroom door swung open.

"You're home!" Dad cried, striding to Minerva and scooping her up in a tight embrace. Despite herself, she laughed as he lifted her off the floor.

"Put her down, Robert, you'll give yourself a heart attack," Mother laughed, though she stepped forward and tentatively joined the embrace, one hand on Minerva's back.

Dad kissed Minerva's cheek and set her on her feet again. "Never. It's been too long, Miss Minerva, too long since you've been home."

"I missed you," Minerva murmured, her arms still around him.

"The parish missed you at Easter services," Dad laughed, patting her back heartily. Minerva smiled and kept a smart remark about her graduation to herself, allowing him to kiss the top of her head again. "You've settled in well," he said, pulling back and looking around the little bedroom. This was his uncomfortable way of acknowledging how hard she and Mother worked at keeping their home as 'normal' as possible. He kissed Mother's cheek.

"Beef stew tonight, Robert," Mother said. "Sound all right?"

"That ought to do us well, eh, Minerva?" he asked, grinning at her. She nodded. A lump was rising in the back of her throat. "Goodness, lass, you look all turned about," he said, squeezing her tightly about the shoulders with one arm.

"She's had an important week, Robert," said Mother gently.

Dad smiled. "She has. I haven't forgotten that," he said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a small package wrapped in paper and presented it to Minerva. "I'm proud of you, love, for finishing all that."

Momentarily stunned, Minerva unwrapped the gift in silence. A small silver ring fell out of the parcel, into her palm. It was beautiful, a thin filament of silver twisted into a looping figure-eight knot. Dad took it out of her palm and slipped it onto the middle finger of her right hand.

"Gorgeous," he told her.

"Dad…how did you…this had to be expensive," she stammered.

"Never mind that," Mother said, hugging Dad's arm. "Things like this only happen a few times in your life."

Perhaps it was because she was so 'turned about,' or because she was exhausted from weeks of preparation for exams, from journeying up from London on Muggle trains with Robbie and Malcolm in tow, or perhaps it was because she was growing weary of being both her father's daughter and her mother's kindred spirit, but all Minerva could hear were the words her parents didn't dare to say in front of each other.

_Witch. Magic. Hogwarts._

Minerva stared down at her ring. "I—I think I'd like to take a walk before supper," she said. Her mother and father were silent for a moment. "I could—I could walk to town. Do you have anything you need posted, Dad?" she said, hoping that it was just the ringing in her ears that made her voice sound so shaky.

"No, I—I don't," he said, clearly nonplussed.

"Well, I think I'd like to walk anyway," Minerva announced, scooping up a sweater before her mother could remind her. She draped it over her shoulders. "I'll be back before the table's set," she promised, waving her hand briefly.

And she left her parents standing in her bedroom as she hurried down the stairs and out the front door of the manse. The sun was nowhere near setting—not this far north, at this time of year—but all the fields and houses in the little glen were bathed in a fiery orange glow. Minerva set off down the dirt road, down the path to town.

As she marched, she muttered to herself. Anyone passing her would have thought her insane, but she was quite alone up here. Nearly everyone was home for dinner by now, either in the heart of town or here on the outskirts. Before long, she started twisting the new ring on her finger. Truthfully, it made her nervous, a frightening weight on her right hand that she was afraid she was going to lose. Jewelry had never been an accessory of hers at Hogwarts.

And yet, this was a beautiful ring. Clearly her parents had worked hard to pick it out,

In her heart, she ached to assume her feline form; her emotions were much less acute, so much easier to handle and compartmentalize into one or the other—happy _or_ sad, and never both—when she was a cat. But this was risky magic to perform near Muggles, and she hadn't quite yet mastered the art of behaving like an ordinary, everyday housecat.

She also didn't feel like being chased by the enormous brown and white collie that had appeared around the bend in the lane and was now bounding towards her. She drew both hands up, away from the slobbering mouth and wet nose as the huge dog leapt up, dancing all around her, thinking she was playing a game.

"Reggie! Reggie, cut it out, will ye—" A young man was running after the dog, waving his arms.

"Dogs are supposed to be on leads, even out here," Minerva said sharply, as the dog's owner came sprinting up. He caught the dog's collar, panting. "That's just courtesy."

The young man looked up, and Minerva's brain stuttered to a halt. He had bright blue eyes and a thick mass of curling, brown-blonde hair. He smiled at her, and though he couldn't have been much older than she was, his tanned face crinkled around his eyes. He had to be a farmer from one of the neighboring plots of land; the look was unmistakable. "Well, excuse us, miss," he said, kneeling down and scratching the panting collie's head. "We didn't mean to be rude, did we, Reggie?"

Minerva stepped back. "It's all right," she mumbled, looking down at the ground.

He released the dog's collar and straightened up, dusting his hands on his trousers. The collie sniffed interestedly at Minerva's shoe, but didn't jump up or bark at her again. "You live around here?" he asked.

Minerva frowned. "Do you?"

He laughed, a huge laugh that actually—_actually_—made Minerva's stomach twist up in a shocking jolt of happiness, just the way Clare had once described to her. He pointed over her shoulder, up the road and across the small valley. "My family's farm," he said.

"That's Richard McGregor's," Minerva told him. "He doesn't have sons."

He grinned again. "No, aye, he doesn't. But he _had_ a brother. My da."

"Oh," Minerva said quietly. "I—I didn't know he'd—I'm sorry for your loss," she said, her cheeks flushing hot.

The man stared at her curiously. "It's been a few years," he said, "you sure you're from around here, miss? Thought everybody knew we'd taken up the farm here."

"You're his…nephew?"

"Dougal McGregor," he said, sticking out a hand. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance. And this is Reggie—er, Regina." He gestured to the collie, who was wagging her tail and peering between them excitedly.

"I'm Minerva McGonagall," she replied, shaking his hand.

"McGonagall…you're the minister's daughter, eh?" Dougal asked. "That's right, you're the one that's always off at school. You missed Easter services…I remember you from Christmas, though."

Minerva stared at him. "Y-you do?"

"You sat up at the front," Dougal nodded. "You had holly tied on that plait." He pointed at her braid. Then, suddenly, he turned bright red, cleared his throat, and looked away. "So, er—you've been away at school. So…you've—erm—you're on holiday, then?"

"I've finished," Minerva replied. "Just this week."

Dougal looked surprised. "Oh—is that so? Good work, then, that's…that's grand," he smiled at her.

"That's what they tell me."

"You don't think so?" he asked, frowning.

Minerva shrugged. "What I think doesn't seem to matter much around here," she said, before she could stop herself. She turned scarlet, and they were both quiet for a long moment. Minerva rubbed her elbow and looked at Reggie, who had stuck her nose in a nearby bush.

"So…"

"That's a favorite word of yours, is it?"

Dougal laughed again, and Minerva's spine tingled. "I guess so. And you like making fun of fools like me, then?"

"I'm sorry," she said, giggling slightly in spite of herself. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

Dougal spread his arms and shrugged. "So, Minerva McGonagall," he said, fixing her with a piercing look, "what are your plans now?"

She froze. She had no idea how to answer the question. It wasn't a matter of truth-telling or not (eventually, it would come out in town that the minister's daughter had moved "back" to London, where they had always been told she attended school; she didn't know what story her parents would have this time—finishing school, perhaps, on her mother's wealthy relatives' dime), but rather that, for some inexplicable reason, she couldn't bring herself to say the words: _I'm only visiting. I'm going away soon._

Dougal was staring at her.

"N-nothing," she stammered. "I—I haven't decided—I might do a university course," she lied quickly, "or—or finishing school. I'm—I'm really quite…free," she lied.

He smiled. "I—didn't quite mean _career_ plans," he laughed. "I meant…in the next week or so?"

Minerva, who had been prepared to retort angrily that she wasn't about to drop everything she had just achieved in favor of a quiet life in Caithness, was dumbstruck. "I—I hadn't—"

"There's the social hall opening," Dougal said, apparently to the dirt under his shoes as he jammed his fists in his pockets. "It's…Saturday, I think. My sister's going. I wasn't, but…maybe if I knew some other people there…"

"I'm really terrible at parties," Minerva blurted out. Dougal looked up at her, smiling. "What I meant was—I—well, I don't quite…I don't like them, much."

Dougal rubbed the back of his neck. "Aye, nor me."

"My brothers might have a good time," she said slowly. "They're probably not allowed to go by themselves, but maybe…I could take them."

He grinned. "Maybe we'll see you, then."

"Perhaps." Minerva's stomach twisted, and she felt heat flood her face again as she and Dougal looked at each other. She jumped when Reggie the collie barked loudly; she had climbed up on top of the steep hillside next to the dirt road and apparently couldn't get down.

"I'll—uh—I'll get her," Dougal laughed, as Reggie whined loudly. He climbed carefully up the grassy slope and grabbed Reggie's collar, starting to lead her back down. "Erm—Minerva, if you like, I could—"

But Minerva was gone. She had bolted—actually fled—and in the three or so minutes that Dougal had had his back to her, she had murmured a spell and was now curled up in the ditch on the lower side of the road, keeping her tail and all four paws as tight to her body as she could.

Dougal looked up and down the road, but couldn't see which way she had gone. She felt a purr rising in her throat, and, embarrassed, packed herself down tighter into the grass.

"Where'd…Reggie—hey, you silly creature, I'm not rescuing you again," he laughed, clapping his hands to call the dog before her sniffing nose could get any closer to Minerva's hiding place. "What do you think, lass?" he asked, scratching Reggie's ears as she bounded up to him. "She's an odd one, isn't she?"

Minerva felt a surge of indignation as Reggie barked loudly and chased herself in a circle.

"Me too," Dougal grinned. "Lovely as the day is long, eh?"

Reggie barked again and ran up the road a ways. Then she barked again. Dougal looked around once more, shook his head in a bewildered way, and started off up the road after her.

When Minerva was quite sure he was gone, she poked her head up out of the grass and sniffed. They were a fair distance away by now. She padded up onto the dirt road, heated by the sun, and dropped with a sigh onto her side, curling and uncurling her body in the warm earth. When she finally popped back into her human form, her family would think she'd been attacked and left in the dust, but for now, she just wanted to bask in this lovely, warm feeling.


	15. Summer I

Time for some Dougal... :)

The real question here is going to be...does anyone doubt that Minerva played some serious hard-to-get? ;)

LEAVE ME HUGS IN REVIEW FORM. I LOVES YOU AND I AM SLEEPY/CRAZED.

* * *

10 July 1954

"I didn't think you were actually going to be here."

Minerva started up from the wall she sat on, wrapping her arms around her waist. Dougal, looking as uncomfortable in his jacket and tie as she felt in the new dress Mother had been so eager to buy for her when she'd mentioned the possibility of attending a party. "I…said I would be," she shrugged, rubbing her bare elbow uncomfortably.

"Actually," Dougal corrected her, "you said, 'perhaps,' and then you ran off. Anybody would've thought you'd vanished into thin air."

Minerva swallowed, unsure of what to say.

He leaned against the low wall she stood beside and smiled at her. "I'm glad you came. It's mad in there, I was thinking of leaving. Are your brothers inside?" He nodded to the open doors of the church's social hall, which were spilling golden light out into the small courtyard. Voices and laughter echoed from within out into the night. Dougal and Minerva stood at the wall, quite alone.

"Somewhere." Minerva. "Your sister?"

"Aye, with a pack of her friends," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "They're dancing."

Minerva felt a sting of jealousy, right under her ribs, and looked up at the church's small spire, the roof of which was losing its shingles. "You'd think they'd get around to mending the things that really need fixing before they put up new things like this." She gestured to the social hall.

"Aye, you should really talk to your father about that," Dougal smirked, following her along the fence. Minerva frowned. "I'm only teasing," he said. "Gosh, you're a quick one."

"What does that mean?" she asked hotly.

Dougal laughed. "Nothing, Minerva." The way he said her name made her feel foolish. She was glad he couldn't see how red her cheeks had surely gotten.

"Dougal! Come along, Meghan Campbell's looking for you!" A pretty girl with curly brown hair, who looked to be a few years older than Dougal, appeared in the doorway. This could only be his sister. She spotted Minerva and smiled briefly. "Oh. Hello. Dougal, come _on!"_ She strode forward and took his arm.

"Er…I'll find you later," Dougal promised, as the girl pulled him into the hall.

* * *

17 July 1954

Minerva hefted the shopping basket onto her arm as she crossed the road, which was blocked off for the Sunday afternoon vegetable and flower market, and headed for the lettuce and cabbage stall. As she did, she heard a loud chorus of giggles, and looked around.

Dougal McGregor was walking down the street, carrying a crate of vegetables, and he was grinning at a pack of girls who were watching him from behind the fruit cart.

"Care for one, Dougal?" asked one very petite girl with red hair, who left her gaggle of friends and strolled up to him with a small handful of strawberries.

Dougal smirked and lifted the crate slightly. "My hands are full, Miss Meghan."

"I shall have to help you out, then," she teased back, putting one berry between his teeth. The girls behind her let out a huge, single-voiced squeal, and Dougal winked at them. Then, for a split second, as though he knew she was watching him, he caught Minerva's eye before heading along on his way. Meghan rejoined her girlfriends, who immediately began chattering at her.

Minerva clenched her teeth and turned her back on the scene, seething as the girls giggled even more loudly.

"You're crushing me merchandise, girl," growled the man behind the stall. "If it's ruined you'll have to pay for it."

Minerva released the head of lettuce and stalked away.

* * *

24 July 1954

"Good day," Dad said, shaking hands with Dr. Gibson and his wife as they filed out of the church with the rest of the congregation. "Good day…yes, thank you…"

Minerva stood with her mother and brothers by the church garden's wall. She fanned herself, and Mother smiled at her. "Why don't we make lemonade when we get home?" she asked. "Maybe I'll whip up some ice, it's certainly hot enough…"

Minerva gave her a sly smile and looked at Robbie and Malcolm, who both had eager expressions on their faces. "Sounds fantastic."

"_Yes,"_ Malcolm sighed happily. Mother patted his shoulder and went to say hello to another family leaving the church; neighbors were strolling away lazily, stopping to chat here and there.

"Let's go," Robbie insisted. "I'm dying, I've never been this hot in my life…"

"Dad's nearly done," Minerva yawned, dropping down on the wall as well; the heat was getting to her. She glanced over at the line of people trickling out of the church, and her stomach flipped. Dougal McGregor, the curly-haired young woman Minerva had taken to be his sister, and an older couple who could only be their parents were all greeting her father. How could she have failed to notice him sitting in the service?

Dougal seemed to sense that he was being observed, and looked over at her. He gave her a half smile, and she turned her back on him.

"Who's that?" Malcolm asked, pointing. Minerva grabbed his hand and yanked it down.

"Minerva's blushing," Robbie laughed suddenly, and she glared at him and closed her fingers around his arm, squeezing hard. He was nearly fourteen now, but she was still taller and stronger than him, and he squirmed helplessly in her grip.

"Ever had a Stretching Jinx put on you?" she hissed in his ear.

"Good heavens, Minerva, leave him alone," Mother told her, only hearing part of this interaction. "Oh, that's Elizabeth McGregor," she said vaguely, waving at Dougal's mother. "Have you met her?" she asked Minerva, nodding at the gray-haired, smiling woman who was deep in conversation with Dad. "She's a lovely woman, they must be talking about her daughter's wedding."

"Dad can catch up to us, can't he?" Minerva asked, glancing at Dougal out of the corner of her eye. "Why don't we start walking?"

"Why so _nerv_ous, _'Nerv-_a?" Robbie said, elbowing her.

Minerva seized his arm. "Robert William McGonagall, I—"

"You'd better watch out, I couldn't get away with that kind of teasing until I was bigger than my sister."

Minerva turned around. Dougal had walked away from his family and come over. He offered his hand to Mother. "You must be Mrs. McGonagall. I'm Dougal McGregor—"

"Elizabeth's son, yes, she's mentioned you. I think I've met your whole family, except you," Mother replied, beaming at him. "It's a pleasure, Dougal. These are Reverend McGonagall's children—Robert, Malcolm—and this is Minerva."

"Nice to meet you," Dougal said, shaking Minerva's hand with a faint grin on his face.

Mother looked over at the church doors. "I think your father's ready…yes, let's go. It was lovely to meet you, Dougal."

"Lovely to meet you, Mrs. McGonagall," Dougal said.

"Bye." Minerva nodded and tried to sidestep him, following her mother and brothers.

"Wait," he said, touching her arm. "Do you—are you busy, this evening? Would you like to have dinner with my family? We're having an engagement party for my sister."

Minerva felt blood rush into her cheeks. "I don't know," she said. "I—I might need to help my mother," she murmured.

"I'd like it if you could," Dougal said. "You'd be saving me from being stuck by myself. You're much more interesting than a room full of her friends."

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "I'm sure you can find someone else to interest you," she said coolly.

He stared at her. "I'm not sure what you…oh." He looked embarrassed. "You mean Meghan."

Just the mention of her name made Minerva burn with jealousy. "I have to go," she said. Her father was standing at the gate, waiting for her. "Good-bye."


	16. Summer II

*cries*

I'm so sorry I missed last week, guys! I DIDN'T MEAN TO GET BEHIND! :(

Love you all madly!

* * *

31 July 1954

"Minerva, will you call your father? It's nearly time for dinner," Mother said, one hand on her hip as she pushed the meat and vegetables around the frying pan with a fork. Malcolm and Robbie had set the kitchen table and were now polishing the silverware.

Minerva dusted her floury hands on her apron and removed it. "The rolls are done," she said, slipping out of the kitchen and across the hall. Her father's study door was ajar.

"Dad," she said, knocking once. "Dinner."

He looked up from the paper he was writing on. "Oh—already?"

"It's after seven," she said, coming to sit on the window seat. Dad smiled at her.

"I don't remember how long it's been since you sat there while I worked," he said.

Minerva grinned. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move outside in the garden.

"Minerva?"

"I'll be right back," she said tightly, getting up and marching out. She strode out the front door, into the early evening light, just in time to see Dougal McGregor's retreating back as he ran up the lane. She could even hear his dog barking.

Monty, who had been sunning himself by the garden fence, eyed Minerva.

"A lot of help you were, I see!" she snapped at him, and he glared back at her. "You'd better hope I don't tell Dad to get a guard dog." Then, relenting, she scooped him up and kissed the top of his head. He clambered up and curled around her shoulders. She scratched his chin. "No, we'd never do that to you, Monty, would we? No…"

She stopped and frowned down at the front step. A bundle of bluebells, tied by a white linen ribbon, lay on top of a book with a green cover. She picked up both. The book was Edmund Spenser's _The Faerie Queene_. Minerva groaned. "You've _got_ to be joking." Monty snorted.

She opened the book. Inside the front cover, Dougal had written in pencil, _I'm sorry. _Despite herself, and rolling her eyes heartily as she did, Minerva smiled. "Well, the flowers are nice," she said, tickling Monty's nose with them. He sniffed again and curled his tail around her neck.

"Minerva! Come inside, dear, we're waiting for you!" Dad's voice called.

As Minerva turned to go inside, she glanced once over her shoulder. A border collie was standing in the dirt road, a little way up from the house, wagging her tail happily.

* * *

7 August 1954

The walk from town to the manse seemed much, much shorter than usual the night that Dougal and Minerva went on their first date.

"I'm sorry if that was a bit loud for you," he said sheepishly. "My sister would be furious if she heard I took a girl to the Piper."

"I've been in pubs before," Minerva said. "I rather like them."

Dougal looked sideways at her. He had been giving her this look all night; he never followed it with curious questioning or suspicion. Rather, it seemed that he was just taking stock, making mental note of everything she said. And truth be told, for as interesting as he apparently found her, she was even more fascinated by him.

He knew nothing about her, or her family, or any of the rumors that circulated about them—or, if he did, he didn't care. And for all of the wonderful qualities he apparently possessed, there was something about him, difficult to name, that lay just beneath the surface.

The first question she had asked him the morning after he had left the book on her doorstep was, "Why Spenser?"

He had shrugged. "It fits."

"Fits?" Minerva asked. "Fits what?"

Dougal had shrugged and opened his arms wide, as if to suggest that Minerva could explain it any way she liked; it didn't matter to him. And they had made their date for one week from then.

Now, walking home under the quarter moon and full sky of stars, this strange—but wonderful—night was drawing to a close. Minerva smiled sideways at Dougal, and, unexpectedly, he took her hand. They stopped walking at the front gate of the manse.

"So you go to pubs…and finishing school…and you've read _The Faerie Queene," _he said. "That's quite something, Miner—"

She stared at him. "Dougal, I…" but she didn't want to say anything. She didn't want to put him off. Her will to be happy, to stay in this moment as long as she could was stronger by thousands than the itching, nudging sensation she had that there could be trouble down this road.

"I'd like to see you again. Someplace quiet, maybe," he said softly. "We could take a drive, if you'd like. To Dalkeith, or the coast…"

"I want to know something," she interrupted him. "And I'd like—please tell me the truth."

Dougal looked surprised, for the first time all evening. "All right."

"Why would you—if you're so _interested_—in me," she said slowly, "Why would you—why—?" He seemed to shrink slightly, looking away from her. Minerva blinked; there were tears filling her eyes, but she pressed on. "I don't want to be—to be made fun of. I don't want to be a joke. I _am not_ a joke."

"No—you're not," Dougal said. "I—argh, I'm sorry—I meant what I wrote, Minerva, I am sorry—"

"Well, that explains it," she replied sarcastically.

"I—I…wondered if—if you'd be jealous," he said, "when you saw me with Meghan. I couldn't tell, and I wanted to know, so I…" he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "And…you were, but—I felt like an arse. And…I'm sorry."

Minerva glared at him. "You _wanted_ to make me jealous. Right. Well. It's been a nice evening, thank you very much, and—"

"Please," Dougal said, catching her hand gently. "It was stupid of me—but I didn't mean it. Can you forgive me? Please?"

She was quiet.

"I will never—ever—make you feel like a joke—ever again," he insisted. "You—you're the most—I can't even say the words, I just—you're _you_, Minerva McGonagall." Dougal seemed almost out of breath. He waved a hand at her impatiently. "And you make me—you make me act like an idiot."

"Stop talking," Minerva said softly, leaning forward.

The first kiss was shockingly poorly aimed, and as much a surprise to her as it was to Dougal.

But the second kiss…he was holding her so gently, and her arms were so comfortable around his neck, that she couldn't help herself: he kissed her, and she kissed him back.

* * *

14 August 1954

Minerva and Dougal spent nearly every free moment they had with one another. It wasn't long before Minerva had realized she'd let entire weeks slip past without answering any letters from friends or teachers, but she had, in some ways, lost interest. They were miles away from this little corner of the world; what did she care about Augusta's latest fight with Herbert?

And why shouldn't she relax? Why shouldn't she pause, and take a break from the—well, perhaps not the secrecy, but that hardly mattered, she told herself—but from the pressures of the awards and plaques she could practically feel vibrating beneath her floorboards every night? Why shouldn't she make the most of every hour she had to spend with Dougal? Why shouldn't she give herself over to his kisses, to the feeling of his arms around her?

He drove her back from Dalkeith one evening, a week before his sister's wedding, after a long and beautiful day by the coast (selecting a new suit for Dougal and having a dress tailored for Minerva to wear to the party), and it was to Minerva's great surprise after kissing him goodnight to find her mother waiting for her in the sitting room. She removed her glasses as Minerva came in and smiled.

"Did you have a nice time?" she asked. "Did they mend that dress?"

Minerva held up her shopping bag and nodded. "I've got the change," she said. "I'm sorry I'm so late, I didn't mean to keep you up…"

Mother shook her head. "You're nearly an adult, darling, you don't have a bedtime anymore. I couldn't sleep." She smiled. "I wanted to ask you something," she said. "May I?"

"What's that?" Minerva asked carefully.

"Sit down," Mother invited her, gesturing to the chair beside hers. Minerva obeyed. "I only wanted to ask about…well, about Dougal," she confessed.

Immediately, Minerva felt herself closing up. "What about him?"

Mother seemed to sense this. "Are—are you happy, Minerva?"

She was quiet for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"I only want to know," Mother said, more carefully, "if you're happy. Have you—have you been happy, here, this summer?"

Minerva stared at her. She knew what this was about, but she felt that mulish, immature tug on her heart to stay where she was—to be at peace—surely she had earned this?—and so she picked up the end of her braid, which hung over her shoulder, and examined it nonchalantly. "I'm perfectly happy, Mother, yes. Why do you ask?"

She was careful to pretend that she didn't notice her mother's eyes on her.

"I'm glad for you," Mother said quietly.

* * *

21 August 1954

The McGregor house was filled to the brim for the raucous gathering that took place there the night that Dougal's sister Alice married Thomas Ainsley. Dougal's home was much, much larger than the manse and boasted a large dining room that left enough space for live musicians and dancing. Well-wishers thronged throughout the downstairs rooms, which were even more impressively huge when Minerva remembered that it was only meant to be a farmhouse.

She knew few people in attendance, and only in the most informal of ways—casually, as neighbors occasionally crossing paths, or from her intermittent attendance at her father's church before and during her time at Hogwarts. Nearly all of the guests were McGregor family or had grown up in Caithness with Dougal, Alice, and her new husband. Dougal had been trying to stay with Minerva as much as he could, but he was needed—first for pictures with his family, then to greet guests.

After a few hours, Minerva decided that she ought to give tonight up as a bad job. Who but the two of them would have thought that her presence as a mere friend would have allowed them any privacy? They would just have to meet again when his family had all left the farmhouse.

She was just stepping out onto the road when Dougal called to her.

"I never got my dance with you!" he said.

She turned back and smiled at him; he stood on his front porch, silhouetted by the bright light streaming from the open door and windows. "I'm a terrible dancer," she told him. "You'd have ten broken toes."

"I don't believe you," he replied, walking towards her. He put his hands on her waist. "You're too graceful."

Minerva's cheeks burned. "Don't do that," she muttered.

"Do what? Tell the truth?" But Dougal seemed to see that she was embarrassed, and so he took her hand. "I'll walk you home."

"Won't they miss you?" Minerva said, even as they started walking.

He shook his head. "Everyone's fussing over Tom and Alice. No one will miss me for a while."

"It was a nice wedding," she said, after they had walked in silence for a little while.

Dougal nodded. "I've never been to a wedding before."

"Neither have I," Minerva said. "Augusta is supposed to be married soon, but—"

"Well, maybe we can go to that one," he said, not noticing that she had broken off awkwardly.

"Maybe," she murmured. They continued down the gently sloping lane and turned at the fork towards the manse. For nearly ten minutes they walked silently, hand in hand.

"Minerva," he said at last, very quietly. She looked sideways at him. "I love you," he said, even more softly.

Minerva's heart flipped in her chest; she squeezed his hand. "I love you too," she replied.


	17. Proposal

:) How are we all, gang? Love you.

* * *

28 August 1954

"Well, Minerva, I can't remember the last time we've had so kind a houseguest," said Mrs. McGregor, as Minerva carried the last of the dinner plates to the kitchen. "Thank you, dear."

Minerva smiled at Dougal, who was grinning hugely and carrying an armload of glasses and silverware, as they passed in the doorway to the kitchen.

"I'm very used to helping at home, ma'am," she said to Mrs. McGregor as she sat down again, "it's no trouble at all."

"Dougal should have brought you around ages ago," said Mr. McGregor. "He hasn't stopped talking about you for weeks."

"Did you enjoy the wedding last week?" Mrs. McGregor asked, as Dougal came to sit down beside Minerva. "I wish we had seen more of you."

"Oh—that's all right," Minerva said. "I had a lovely time, but I'm afraid I left rather early. My mother was expecting me home."

"Aha," said Mr. McGregor, turning to look at Dougal. "And I'd wager that's where you wandered off to? Escorting Miss McGonagall home?"

"Dad," Dougal said. Mrs. McGregor caught Minerva's eye and shook her head, looking amused.

"Minerva, dear, we're having a family dinner next weekend," she said, reaching over to touch Minerva's hand, "a welcome-home for Tom and Alice, to help them move into their new house. You would be more than welcome."

Minerva hesitated. "I—I might be—out of town, Mrs. McGregor," she said. "I'd have to check my plans."

Dougal frowned. "You're going away?"

"Just a few days," Minerva said, though she could feel her heartbeat rising the way it had every day for the last week, every time she thought of her looming job in the Ministry. As far as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was concerned, she was due to leave for London in just four days, but she hadn't purchased any train tickets, hadn't packed, and she hadn't told Dougal she was meant to be leaving.

"Are you all right, Minerva?" asked Mrs. McGregor. "You look terribly flushed."

"I—I think I'm just tired," she said quickly. "Perhaps I ought to start home."

Mr. and Mrs. McGregor both stood up. "It was a pleasure to meet you properly," said Mrs. McGregor, taking her hand and planting a kiss on her cheek. "Come back soon."

"I'd like that," Minerva said, shaking Mr. McGregor's hand.

"I'll walk with you," Dougal said.

They said their goodbyes, and Minerva and Dougal left the McGregors' farmhouse.

"Where are you going?" she asked, as Dougal made to turn left outside the front door. "The road's up there."

"I know a shortcut," he said, "through our property. We should end up by that creek near your house."

"We _should? _I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Minerva said. "Are you going to get us lost?"

"Won't find out until I try," Dougal shrugged. Minerva rolled her eyes and took his hand.

"You were awfully quiet at dinner," she observed as they walked down the path that led to the McGregors' fields. The sun was going down, lighting up the long plots of land in brilliant gold.

"I was watching you," he said, looking off into the distance as they walked "You're always fun to watch."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"You've got this great way of looking at people." His words were kind, but he still wasn't looking at her, and sounded deeply thoughtful, maybe even a little upset. "Like you can't wait to hear what they've got to say."

Minerva was starting to feel nervous. "And…that's a good thing?"

Dougal nodded. "I think so."

"I like your parents," she said. "They're good people."

He nodded again. He was still holding her hand, but he seemed distant, wrapped up in his own thoughts. "Minerva…"

"I don't have to go out of town," she said quickly. "Dougal, I can—I just remembered, I can make it this weekend—"

"Minerva," he interrupted her gently. "I want to ask you something."

"Y-you do?"

Dougal took her hand in both of his, smiled at her, and knelt down on one knee. Minerva felt she could have fainted.

"What are you—?"

"Will you ever let me talk, Miss McGonagall?" Dougal laughed. She clapped a hand over her mouth as tears filled her eyes. "Minerva…will you marry me?"

He reached into his pocket and produced a gold ring with a tiny diamond set in it, holding it up for her to see.

"Dougal," she breathed, "I…yes. _Yes."_

"Yes?" he asked excitedly, already scrambling back to his feet and nearly toppling over in excitement. "Really, Minerva, you mean it? Truly?"

"Give me the wretched ring before you lose it in the potato crop," she laughed, as tears fell down her cheeks. "Dougal—oh, _Dougal—"_

He slid the ring onto her finger, and she kissed him.

* * *

Minerva felt she could have flown back to the manse, she was so little aware of her surroundings. Dougal had hurried back to his parents' house to tell them the good news; she had gone home alone to tell Mother and Dad.

She was humming to herself when she opened the kitchen door and slipped inside. It wasn't late, so Robbie and Malcolm, who were seated at the kitchen table, greeted her. Robbie had his summer homework piled all around him, and Malcolm was sorting his Chocolate Frog Cards. She stopped and stared at them for a moment; the sight of the two of them _not _arguing or torturing each other made something in her stomach tauten slightly.

"What are you all moony about?" Robbie asked, his nose wrinkled as though he thought she might be contagious. _"Dougal?"_

Minerva unfroze and smiled again. "You, stuck doing your Herbology that got assigned in _June_," she told him, ruffling his hair. Malcolm snorted.

"Joke's on you, I'm doing Charms now!" Robbie called as she swept across the hall and into her father's office. To her surprise, Dad wasn't at his desk. She frowned and went back into the kitchen.

"Where are they?"

"Upstairs," Malcolm said.

"It's only half eight," said Minerva. "They aren't in bed already?"

"Doubt it."

"I look forward to the day I hear a complete sentence out of you, Malcolm McGonagall," she said, rolling her eyes as she left the room again. Minerva ascended the stairs, listening carefully. She could hear her parents' voices coming from their closed bedroom door, so they weren't asleep. But, at the same time, they hadn't yet heard her come in.

She decided she wanted a moment to prepare—to breathe, relax. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door silently, leaning against it for a moment. She raised her left hand and stared at the ring. It sparkled even in the dimming evening light.

Monty came slinking out of the shadows and curled around Minerva's ankle, poking her with one of his paws. She bent and scooped him up. "Can you keep a secret?" she whispered, kissing his ears. "Look."

She wiggled her fingers in front of his nose, and he batted at them and meowed. "I know. I'm happy, too," she said. Monty looked up at her for a moment. "What?" she asked. He butted his head against her chin, then wriggled and dropped out of her arms, heading back to the bed with his tail up high.

Rolling her eyes, Minerva turned to her mirror. She smoothed her hair, looking at her reflection critically, and trying to imagine what her long, thin face would look like, peering out of a bridal veil. How would a white dress look on her skinny shoulders, her tall frame?

Monty meowed.

"I'm going! Don't be so bossy," she told him. Minerva opened her door, crossed the hall, and approached her parents' door, which stood just a little bit ajar.

"…Harmless, Isobel…she's eighteen…"

"…And how old was I?"

Their hushed voices faded in and out of hearing; they were trying to keep this conversation as quiet as possible. There was no way they knew Minerva was home.

"…Good young man…could be good for her…"

"But think of all she's _accomplished_, Robert." Mother's voice rang out loud and clear. Dad said nothing for almost a full minute. Minerva could feel her heart plummeting from her ribcage, straight to the floor. She felt as though she was going to be sick.

"Of course," said Dad's voice. "I—I understand, Isobel."

They were both silent again.

"I'll have a talk with her, if you'd like," he said. "I—I'll be in my study, I'll see her when she comes in."

"Thank you," said Mother quietly, "But it might be best if I do it."

Unable to listen to any more, Minerva knocked and pushed the door open. Her right hand was shaking on the doorknob; she hid her left behind her back. "I—I just wanted to tell you I'm home."

"Minerva," Mother said, getting up. She had been sitting on the bed. Dad was on the chair in the corner that usually held Mother's sewing pile. "Did you have a nice time?"

Minerva nodded, swallowing hard to stop her chin from trembling. "I—I think I'm—a little tired, though," she said. "I'm going to go to bed."

"It's not even nine," Dad said, frowning. "Do you feel ill?"

"No," she said. "Just tired."

Mother tried to take her hand. "Minerv—"

"I'll talk to you both in the morning," she said, stepping back quickly. "Good night."

And she hurried back across the hall and shut her bedroom door behind her.


End file.
